


Slowly Adjusting Trajectory

by Morgane (smilla840)



Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate character deaths, Family, Fix-It, Kid Fic, M/M, Pining, Post Movie, Visit from an alternate universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:44:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 24,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smilla840/pseuds/Morgane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Loki, Clint realises a few things - mainly that he's in love with Phil, and probably has been for a while. Unfortunately, almost dying has made Phil realise a few things of his own, and he decides to patch things up with his ex-girlfriend. Add to that a visit from a dying Phil and their son from an alternate universe, and things get very complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: alternate character deaths (both in the past and during the course of the story - see summary!), very vague spoilers for the trailer of Iron Man 3 (if you know it's called Iron Man 3 and not The Avengers 2, you're good).
> 
> I wasn't sure whether this warranted a Major Character Death warning since none of 'our' characters dies. In the end I decided against it, but if you think I should change that let me know! :)

Once upon a time Clint had loved standing on the rooftop of SHIELD’s New York headquarters. He could see the whole city from there, and no one ever disturbed him. Every now and then, Natasha or Phil would join him in contemplative silence, standing shoulder to shoulder and enjoying the view. That rooftop had been one of Clint’s favourite places.

Not anymore.

All it showed him these days was the destruction Loki and his army had wrought on the city. It had been almost five months, and Manhattan was slowly patching itself up, cranes and construction sites still the prevailing sight everywhere. Clint made himself look – made himself _remember_. He watched improvements and delays, damaged buildings coming down and new ones coming up, and as the city healed so did he. He was getting there, slowly but surely, but nightmares – memories – still kept him up at night, which was why he was on the roof watching the sunrise, mindless of the freezing January temperatures and the snow falling softly on his shoulders. He knew no one would bother him: only two persons would know where to find him and care enough to lure him back inside. But Phil was in Portland recovering, and Natasha was shadowing him on Fury’s orders. 

That sucked, by the way. Clint always bounced back quicker when he had someone to take care of.

Surprisingly little had changed since the attack on the city. After a couple of months of high alert, resurrections and media frenzy, it had become clear that nothing else was going to happen. So the Avengers had gone back to their lives, lives that intersected only rarely. After all, they weren’t a team, not really – just a bunch of people thrown together that one time when circumstances had demanded it. They barely knew each other, and they were all too busy doing their own thing to change that.

With Thor in Asgard doing God things, Stark in California doing Stark things, and Banner having gone off grid the second Stark had let him out of his sight, Rogers was the only one still around. The man had needed a purpose after everything had settled down, and Fury had been more than happy to offer him a job. Clint saw him sometimes – they passed each other in hallways and sat together in the cafeteria when they happened to be there at the same time. Rogers was a good guy, but Clint hadn’t felt that sociable lately. Besides, the man inevitably made him think of Phil, which led to other things Clint was actively trying not to think about.

Near-death experiences had stopped having an effect on him a long time ago – he wouldn’t have lasted as long as he had in his line of work otherwise. Real deaths though? Recent events had shown _that_ still messed with his head, no matter how temporary it ended up being.

Clint could have done without that realisation. 

Phil’s death had been devastating, and he had mourned him, but not as a lost handler or a friend – not _just_ that, anyway. It had felt like he had lost more, the hole in his chest mirroring the one in Phil’s. There had been guilt, yes, but something else too, an unfulfilled potential that would never become fully realised. The irony of coming to terms with the fact that he had been in love with Phil after being responsible for the man’s death hadn’t been lost on Clint, and he had spent days in a haze of _what ifs_ , _my fault_ and _if onlys_. 

Fortunately for Clint Phil had turned out not to be dead after all. Unfortunately dying had had a similar impact on him – one that hadn’t involved Clint. So while Clint had resolved to use this miraculous second chance to ask Phil out for coffee once he was out of the hospital, Phil’s thoughts had turned towards his former girlfriend.

Clint had walked into Medical one morning to find Phil on the phone with Sylvia, voice soft and tentative.

“Are you guys back together?” he had asked him afterwards, and when Phil had smiled Clint had known he wouldn’t say anything after all. He wasn’t an asshole: trying to figure out if he had a shot with Phil when the man was single was one thing. Dumping his confused feelings on him when he was working things out with his girlfriend was something else entirely.

So Clint had put up a good front, and had ignored the too tight feeling in his chest. He had lied, told Phil it was great – that he was happy for him. And he was, because the fact that Phil was even around to break his heart was miraculous, and Clint would take that over the alternative any day. He’d rather have his friend alive and happy with someone else than dead and lost forever.

He would just have to suck it up.

Besides, it wasn’t like anything had changed. Yes, he was now aware of a brand new range of Phil-related feelings, but he had obviously had those for a while, he just hadn’t known about them. All he had to do was learn how to ignore them, and he would be right as rain again. He would move past this, as soon as he was done dealing with the other stuff – what he had done under Loki’s control took precedence over his non-existent love life.

Phil electing to do his rehab in Portland so he and Sylvia could get reacquainted had helped. Fury sending Natasha with him because the paranoid fucker didn’t like the thought of one of his best agents without backup while not at 100% hadn’t. Clint had felt very much alone these past few months and–

The blaring sound of klaxons signalling an intruder in HQ wrenched Clint back to the present, and he bolted for the door, his phone already in hand – with good reasons. He had barely made it down a flight of stairs before it rang.

Hill.

“We need you on Sublevel 3,” she said. “The bunker.”

“Copy that,” Clint acknowledged and ran faster, ignoring the way some agents flinched as he went by. He couldn’t blame them – after all, the association of Hawkeye with the intruder alert hadn’t worked out so great for SHIELD the last time around, and it was bound to bring back bad memories for some of them.

Shoving those thoughts to the back of his mind, Clint made it to the bunker in record time. A first response team had beaten him there, and the first thing he heard was Rogers’s voice.

“Agent Coulson, put the gun down.” 

The guy sounded strained, and there was an edge to his voice that told Clint it hadn’t been not the first time he had asked.

Wait.

Agent _Coulson_?

Clint shoved people aside to see what the hell was going on, and there was Phil, backed into a corner with a death-drip on a gun that was pointed directly at Captain America. From the terribly blank look on his face, Clint knew he wasn’t really seeing him – wasn’t seeing any of them, his brain in primal mode registering only potential threats.

“Back off, all of you,” Clint growled at the others. Couldn’t they see there was something wrong and it was Phil and they were _not helping_?

Rogers frowned at him, but he must have decided Clint was the best equipped to deal with the situation because he gave a short nod of confirmation to the response team – and wow, it didn’t hurt at all that they needed Cap to confirm his order. But there was no time to deal with that, so Clint ignored them as soon as they took a few steps back, focusing on Phil instead.

“Phil, it’s me, you’re at HQ,” he said, gentling his voice despite the heartbeat thundering in his ears. Phil blinked at him slowly, and Clint chose to take that as a good sign. “Think you can put the gun down? You’re making people nervous.”

The gun wavered, and Clint tried to smile encouragingly. It was kinda hard, because Phil looked like crap, he almost didn’t look like _Phil_ , tired and worn in a way that couldn’t be healthy, and where the fuck was Natasha? There was a reason she was supposed to be watching Phil’s back, the man was in no shape to deal with any kind of stress, though Clint had thought he would be better by now. Clearly, he had been wrong. And what the fuck was Phil even doing here? He was supposed to be on the other side of the country.

“Clint?” Phil said, disbelieving and confused, and as the gun finally came down, safety reengaging, a small form darted past him. Phil made an abortive motion to grab the kid – seriously, _what?_ – and missed, reflexes made slower by exhaustion and whatever else was wrong with him, and the kid launched itself at Clint with a sob.

“Daddy!” he cried and Clint suddenly found himself with his arms full, which meant he couldn’t catch Phil when his knees buckled from under him.

Clint stared at the kid sobbing into his chest, at Phil passed out on the floor, and then at Rogers and the rest of the agents crowding the back of the room. They stared back looking just as flabbergasted as Clint felt.

Helpful.

“What the fuck?” he asked.

No one had an answer to offer.

\---

Phil woke up to the steady beeping of a heart monitor. God, he felt like crap – something he had unfortunately grown accustomed to over the past couple of days. Still, it was a better kind of crap than usual, the drugs he was on holding the nausea and cramps at bay for the moment.

That was a good sign. At least they still had drugs.

Less reassuring were the restraints keeping his arms and legs pinned, and Phil had to fight to maintain the appearance of unconsciousness despite the panic that was welling inside him as he took stock of the situation.

Where was Jack?

“Hey,” a well-known voice said, shattering the pretence.

Phil swallowed hard – God, he had missed that voice – and opened his eyes. He couldn’t make himself look, not yet, so he stared at the ceiling instead, forcing back tears. It had been seven months since he had last heard Clint’s voice. He had been laughing, teasing Natasha about something as they geared up, and trying to get Phil to agree with him on the comm. That was how Phil liked to remember him – not the screaming that had come later. 

But this wasn’t Clint. Not the Clint he had known anyway. He needed to remember that.

He forced himself to turn in the direction of the voice, half-afraid that there would be no one there and that he had finally lost it – it wouldn’t surprise him, though he was supposed to have a few more days before _that_ happened. 

He was met with the almost surreal sight of Clint looking at him curiously, Jack sprawled over his chest fast asleep. It wasn’t a sight Phil had thought he would ever see again, and it hit him right in the gut.

“Is he okay?” he asked, and Clint nodded, shifting in his seat before going rigidly still when Jack mumbled something and tightened his grip on his SHIELD-issued jacket. He looked like he had no idea how to deal with the child sleeping on him, maybe even found the whole thing a little terrifying, and Phil was almost glad. It helped keep this Clint separate from his own.

“Medical checked him out, he’s fine,” Clint said, keeping his voice low. A beat of silence, then: “What’s his name? We could barely get a word out of him.”

“Jack. His name is Jack. He’s four,” Phil volunteered.

The silence that followed was awkward, a little uneasy as they tried to gauge each other out. Clint broke the silence first – of course he did, he was the bravest man Phil knew. It obviously wasn’t different here.

“The DNA tests say you’re Phil Coulson,” he started, looking at Phil searchingly. “Only problem is, I’ve talked to the man, and he’s currently on the plane somewhere above Indiana. So what is it? Alternate universe? Visit from the future?”

Phil blinked. “You’re taking this awfully well.”

“What can I say?” Clint shrugged. “In the past year we’ve had Gods, mind-control, portals and alien invasions – I guess anything is possible. Which is it?”

“Alternate universe, I think. You look about the same age,” Phil said, his voice catching a little. He did look like Clint, only very tired – the kind of exhaustion that was bone deep and all consuming, and an expression he had only just started to see on his husband before–

Before.

Were things so bad here?

Phil looked away, trying to ignore the pain in his chest. This wasn’t his Clint – he couldn’t afford to think like that. He had to focus on Jack and what he would tell him. Had to make plans for his future.

“Did anyone else come through after us?” he asked, because he had to hope they weren’t the only ones left.

“No, just the two of you,” Clint said, eyes narrowing as he assessed a potential security threat. “Should we expect more?”

“No,” Phil said tiredly. He didn’t even have time to mourn his friends properly anymore. “If no one followed us, they’re probably all gone. We only had one shot at this.”

Clint nodded to himself. He looked like he wanted to ask more questions, but he eventually settled on:

“Are you going to do something stupid if I undo the restraints?”

Phil shook his head mutely, and Clint leaned forward just enough to free Phil’s left arm, leaving him to undo his right while he started working on his ankles – something for which Phil was grateful as he felt too worn out to even attempt sitting up.

The movement woke Jack, and he blinked at Clint sleepily. The look on his face was heart-breaking, and Phil dreaded what he was going to have to do.

“Hey, Jack,” he said, refocusing his son’s attention on him. 

“Dad, you’re awake!” He beamed at Phil, making him feel better instantly – that smile never failed to do just that.

He scrambled towards Phil, almost falling off Clint in his eagerness. Clint caught him at the last minute, looking dumbfounded, and deposited him on Phil’s bed. 

Jack was mindful with the IVs and the monitors as he made his way up the bed to snuggle against Phil’s side, and as usual the fact that he knew to be careful broke Phil’s heart a little.

“I’ve got to make a call,” Clint said – either demonstrating tact or beating a hasty retreat to regroup, Phil wasn’t sure. But the man didn’t need his permission, and Phil watched him leave the room before looking down at Jack.

“How are you doing?” he asked, checking him over. Medical may have done so already, but Phil was still going to make sure.

Jack just kept smiling, cupping his hand against Phil’s ear to share a secret.

“Daddy came back,” he whispered loudly, as if the fact that no one could see him speak negated the need to actually be quiet.

Phil closed his eyes briefly. How was he supposed to explain to a four year old that the stranger wearing his father’s face was not, in fact, his father? It felt like killing Clint all over again.

“That’s not Daddy, Jack.”

“But –”

“Remember Kenny and Matt? How they look the same?”

Jack nodded, looking mutinous. _‘This better be good,’_ his face said, and it was such a Clint expression that Phil felt like crying.

“They’re twins. Twins are brothers who look exactly like one another. But Kenny and Matt are still two different persons, right?”

Jack’s face scrunched up in concentration and he nodded, some uncertainty seeping into the defiance.

“When we stepped into Bruce’s machine, we came here, where people are like the twins of the people we know.”

“You too?” Jack asked, alarmed, and Phil quickly shook his head.

“No, I’m still me. I’m still your dad. But I have a twin here too.”

“So Dad’s still dead?” Jack’s lower lip wobbled, making Phil feel like a horrible human being.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry, but yes.”

Jack looked at Clint, who was tucking his phone away on the other side of the observation window, and then at Phil, weighting words against fantasy. The hint of stubbornness Phil could see on his face made him sigh internally. This was going to end badly.

“Fury is on his way,” Clint said, coming back into the room and cutting short any hope Phil may have had to convince Jack further. “You have a Fury, right?”

“Yes.” Phil glanced at Jack, and his reluctance must have showed on his face because Clint said:

“I can look after him during the debrief, if you want.”

Phil hesitated. On one hand, he didn’t want Jack to listen to what he would have to tell Fury. On the other, he really didn’t want him out of his sight. And no offense, but this man may look like Clint, but Phil didn’t know him. He wasn’t in the habit of leaving his son with strangers.

“We’ll stay where you can see us,” Clint offered, and Phil finally nodded.

“Okay,” Clint said, relieved. “I’ll go and get stuff ready.” With that he left again, reappearing a few seconds later on the other side of the window with a chair in his hands. 

Phil watched him go back and forth a few times, creating a small waiting area within Phil’s line of sight. He appreciated it.

“I have to meet with someone,” he told Jack. “You’re going to wait outside with –” Phil stumbled for a second, not knowing what to call Clint, “Agent Barton, okay?”

“I don’t want to,” Jack said stubbornly.

“Jack, please.”

“Why?”

Because I don’t want you to have nightmares again, Phil didn’t say, instead going for the classic:

“We have to talk about grown-up stuff.”

Jack looked like he wanted to protest again, but experience had taught him he couldn’t win against the grown-up card, and so he went with Clint when he came back with Fury and Hill in tow.

“Where do you want to start?” Phil asked them, and they were off.

\---

Not for the first time, Clint wondered why he had volunteered to watch the kid. Well, no, he knew why. It had been because of the look on Phil’s face, both protective and lost when he had looked down at his son. Their son – no, not Clint’s. The other Clint’s. Who was, possibly, dead. Jesus, it was confusing. But didn’t change the fact that he didn’t know the first thing about children.

“So… what do you like to do?” Clint asked after a few minutes spent staring at each other in silence.

“Dad says you’re not my dad,” the kid – Jack – said almost accusingly instead of answering. “He says you’re like his twin.”

Or they could talk about that.

Clint nodded cautiously – he guessed that was as good an explanation as any. “He’s right.”

“So what do I call you then?”

Right.

“Uh… You can call me Clint?”

Jack seemed to ponder that for a few seconds – Jesus, could the kid be any more like Phil? – before he nodded decisively.

“Okay.”

Clint should not have felt as relieved as he did then, getting the kid’s stamp of approval.

“Right, so… Do you like to draw?” The only thing he had found at the nurses’ station that had seemed age-appropriate had been paper and pencils, with some red, blue and green pens for variety sake.

Jack wrinkled his nose, and fine, maybe Clint could see the resemblance there too. 

“It’s okay, I guess.”

Hardly a winning endorsement, but it would have to do. He pushed the stuff in Jack’s direction and left him to it, keeping an eye on him and the other on Phil and Fury.

The debriefing seemed to last forever. Jack eventually grew bored with drawing and asked for a story, which Clint made a valiant effort at although it didn’t seem to meet the kid’s standards. Well, he _was_ trying, okay? 

Lunch came – or maybe it was dinner, Clint had lost track of time at some point –, and after a trip to the bathroom Jack went back to his pens. Most of his drawings seemed to feature figures who Clint assumed were Jack and his fathers – one of them may or may not be carrying a bow. Natasha showed up in a few of them – if the red hair was any indication – and possibly Iron Man and Hulk as well. It was a little hard to tell.

Clint had been about to ask when the ping of the elevator made him look up. Natasha strode out of it determinedly, and he stood, mustering a tired smile for her – it had been way too long since he had seen her –, but before he could say anything Jack was throwing himself at her.

Really, the kid had to stop doing that.

Clint quickly intercepted Nat’s hand before she could reflexively reach for a knife – she didn’t do so well with unexpected physical contact. He squeezed her wrist once before letting go, and Nat relaxed, looking down at the kid wrapped around her leg quizzically.

“Hi?” she said.

“Hi!” Jack sounded more excited that Clint had heard him so far. “I know you’re not Tasha, but you’re her twin, so can I call you Tasha too?”

“Uh… Sure?”

He beamed at her, dragging her to his chair to show off his drawings. Clint bit back a smile at the look on Nat’s face as she dutifully examined each one of them, darting increasingly questioning glances at Clint. 

“You can keep that one,” Jack said shyly, turning bright red at Nat’s polite “Thank you”. It was kinda adorable.

Jack though seemed to have run out of steam, and his eyelids soon started drooping. After he had almost slid off his chair a second time, Clint transferred him to his lap despite his grumblings, and sighed with relief when he finally dozed off.

Free to talk at last.

“Where is Phil?” he asked, keeping his voice quiet. Seeing Phil would be _really_ good right now. The long minutes it had taken for Natasha to get eyes on him earlier and confirm the man passed out in Medical was not, in fact, the Phil Coulson they all knew – though the lack of gigantic scars on his chest had helped – had been among the longest of Clint’s life. Phil had looked so bad and _would not wake up_ , and Clint had been certain he had been about to die on him all over again. He didn’t know if he could have dealt with that.

He could do with some visual confirmation that the man was okay right now.

“Stuck on Level 2. Fury cut down his security clearance to make sure he didn’t overdo it during his recovery,” Nat reminded him.

Fuck.

Clint shot a look at Jack and then at the stairs, lingering.

“I can watch him if you want,” Nat offered, and Clint raised an eyebrow at her. _Really?_

She shrugged. _How hard can it be?_

It was tempting, very much so, except–

“Nah, it’s fine. I said I’d look after the kid.” He had promised Phil – the other Phil. Damn it. “But he _is_ okay?”

“Yeah, he’s fine.”

It was enough for now: if Nat said Phil was fine, then he was. 

“So what’s the deal?” she asked, lounging back in her seat and nodding towards the other Phil on the other side of the glass window.

“Some sort of alternate universe portal, I guess.”

“Sure he isn’t a clone or something?”

Clint shrugged with one shoulder. “Medical said they were sure. Besides, I think he’s sick.”

Natasha cocked her head. “Yeah, he doesn’t look so good. What about the kid?”

“That’s his. And mine, I guess – alternate me, I mean.”

She barely even looked surprised. “Interesting. Adopted?”

“Nope, genetically.” And there was the shock, at last. “The DNA tests were pretty formal. And no, I’m not a woman in their universe,” he added to forestall her next question. The quirk of her lips told him he had been right on target.

“That’s a little weird.”

Clint snorted. “Only a little?”

“Okay, a lot,” she amended, craning her neck to see Jack better. “You know, I can see it. He kind of looks like you.”

“He looks like Phil,” Clint countered, because seriously, couldn’t she see that? 

“He looks like both of you.”

Fair enough.

“You don’t think that’s weird? I mean, me and Phil,” he asked, because he was nothing if not a masochist when it came to his feelings.

She rolled her eyes. “Clint, that’s pretty much the only thing that makes sense.”

He blinked. Oh.

She gave him a pointed look that said he was far more transparent than he thought he was, and then proceeded to ignore him while he privately freaked out about it, before rationalising the whole thing as Natasha being Natasha.

The debrief lasted another half hour, and when Fury and Hill exited the room Natasha pushed herself to her feet, Clint following more carefully so as not to disturb Jack.

“Barton, Romanoff, with me,” Fury barked.

Clint opened his mouth to protest – hello, he had a kid in his arms! – but Fury beat him to it.

“And get that child back to his father,” he added, and Clint did just that, ignoring Hill’s stare.

“He’s pretty out of it,” he told Phil back in his room. He looked worse than before, both too pale and flushed, and his heart rate was up. A second after Clint, a nurse bustled into the room and started adding meds to his IV. “Where do you want me to put him?”

Phil pointed at the extra bed that had been set up in a corner earlier, and Clint put Jack down carefully before shooting an interrogative look at Phil to make sure he had done it right.

“Can you put the rails up?” he asked, and Clint hurried to comply. He should have thought of that. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” He hovered by the door for a second. “I’ll… see you?” He finally said, and Phil’s nod was distracted, his face tight with pain.

“Is he okay?” he asked Fury when they made it into the elevator.

“No, he isn’t. Radiation sickness.”

Clint almost missed a step. “He’s dying?”

“Nothing we can do.”

He felt numb, like all his nightmares were coming to life – except it wasn’t like that, was it? It wasn’t Phil. Phil was fine, and they were going to see him right now. Still, it was _a_ Phil, and he was dying, and Clint couldn’t figure out why he was taking this so badly. He didn’t even _know_ the man. 

“The fuckers dropped a bomb on DC without giving SHIELD personnel time to withdraw,” Fury fumed, and Hill mouthed _‘Council’_ at Clint and Natasha. “Almost fell right on top of them. Didn’t even achieve anything. Fucking stupid, that’s what it was.”

In a way, it was almost reassuring that Fury was taking this as personally as he was. Then again if he was starting to measure his mental wellbeing against Fury’s, he was pretty much screwed.

The ride down to Level 2 seemed to last forever, and the walk to the conference room where they had stashed Phil – usually reserved for representatives of other agencies when they were forced to interact with them – seemed to take even longer. But then Phil was in front of him, and Clint had to forcefully stop himself from grabbing onto whatever part of the man he would get away with. Instead he settled on a quick visual inspection that did a lot to reassure him that Phil was okay, replacing his mental image of a sick Phil with a much healthier one. 

Clint hadn’t seen him in a month, not since he had taken a side trip after an op in Seattle and visited him. Phil looked better than he had then, which put him miles ahead of the other one. He moved more easily, no longer keeping his left arm tucked against his chest, and he had put some weight and muscles back on. He was also wearing a suit, which helped with the illusion that he was back to normal. 

As such, Clint was able to respond in kind when Phil smiled, and wisely kept his mouth shut for fear of what might come out.

“Coulson, sit the fuck down,” Fury said, and Phil obeyed with a roll of his eyes.

“You’re going to have to accept that I’m fine eventually,” he pointed out calmly. “So what’s going on?”

“What’s going on is there are two of you in the building,” Fury said shortly, and Phil’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“An infiltration attempt?”

Fury snorted. “Doubtful, he brought his kid with him. And even if it was, he isn’t going to be around long enough.”

“Sir?” Phil frowned.

“Hold your horses, I’m getting to it. Alright, long story short, it’s all Loki’s fault.”

Clint stiffened in his chair, and almost jumped out of his skin when Nat’s hand landed on his thigh under the conference table a second later, squeezing gently.

“I don’t know what the fuck happened,” Fury was saying, “but where he comes from, Loki became King of Asgard a while back. Don’t ask me where Thor was, the other you had never heard of him. Anyway, at some point Loki decided one throne wasn’t enough, and started conquering other worlds. It was complete chaos, with refugees showing up on Earth from all over the place – some of them less than well-intentioned. Kept us busy, and that meant no Captain America. We didn’t have the resources to keep looking, and neither did Stark.”

Clint stole a glance at Phil to see how he was taking that, but his face was impassive. He probably shouldn’t tell him the first thing his alter-ego had done upon arriving was to point a gun at his childhood hero – he may never recover from _that_.

“Then about a year ago Loki turned his eye on us,” Fury went on. “We hadn’t ranked very high on his list of _‘Realms I wanna rule’_ , and it’s too bad it didn’t stay that way because it didn’t go well for us – at all. The WSC made one last-ditch attempt two days ago and nuked DC trying to take Loki out, right in the middle of a SHIELD operation. Stark and Colonel Rhodes died trying to alter the nuke’s course – apparently he was an Avenger too. They failed, obviously, and now it’s slowly killing _you_.” He pointed at Phil.

An oppressive silence settled on the room.

“How did they get here?” Natasha asked, breaking the spell.

“Well, that was _Banner’s_ last-ditch attempt – and Stark’s, I suppose. Open a portal, go through with as many people as possible, regroup, maybe find some help, and then go back. After DC it went from bad to worse – massive civilian casualties, and the WSC was MIA. Then yesterday evening, Loki attacked HQ so Banner turned the machine on. You and the kid were the first through, and according to him the only reason no one would follow was if they were all dead. Whether that’s the case or something else went wrong on their end, the result’s the same. I’m not comfortable asking Banner and Stark to try and recreate whatever they were using, so they’re stuck here unless someone comes and gets them. Which he seems pretty convinced isn’t going to happen.”

Clint shared a mildly freaked-out glance with Nat. Somewhere in another universe the world had pretty much ended, and they were likely both dead. He suddenly had the urge to find a way to contact Thor to make sure Loki was safely locked up.

“What do we do now?” he asked, and Fury shrugged.

“Nothing.” Fury stood, Hill following suit. “Medical will try to make him as comfortable as possible, and I said we’d help with his son afterwards.”

Jesus, Jack. What was going to happen to the kid?

“Send me the files,” Phil told Hill when Fury headed for the door, but the man overheard and rounded on him before she could answer.

“Hill is not sending you anything. Let me make things very clear: I’ve briefed you out of courtesy because it affects you. Now you’re going to go home and rest. Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Phil sighed. “Can I at least see them?”

“Maybe. If you don’t piss me off.” With that Fury left the room, Hill shooting Phil a sympathetic look before following the billowing coat of the Director.

“So,” Clint said once the echoes of the door slamming shut after them had subsided. “Are you staying in town or flying back to Portland?”

“Staying. I have an appointment with Medical next week anyway.” At Clint’s alarmed look he elaborated: “Just one of the hoops I have to go through to be put on light duty.”

“How are you going to get Fury to agree to that?” Natasha asked dubiously, distracting Clint from the relief he was feeling. Between the injury and Phil spending all his time in Portland, part of him had feared the man would resign for good. Obviously he should have known better.

“I’ll find a way,” Phil answered Natasha, and then: “So, a kid? What’s his name?”

“Jack,” Clint said ruefully. “He’s four.”

“Here.” Natasha took the drawing Jack had given to her out of her pocket – Clint hadn’t known she had taken it with her – and pushed it towards Phil. It was one of the group ones, with Jack, Phil and Clint in the middle surrounded by Nat, Iron Man, Hulk – more recognizable due to the colours used to draw them rather than real artistic talent – and another figure Clint hadn’t been able to identify - Rhodes, probably.

“What about his mother?” Phil asked, and Clint raked his hand through his hair nervously, stealing a look at Nat. She stared back at him steadily, her resolve that Clint be the one to tell him clear on her face.

“Uh, that’s the thing,” he said. “Genetically speaking, he doesn’t have a mom, he’s got two dads. You and… me.”

Phil’s eyes widened, and he digested the news quietly, which was better than how Clint had dealt with it. If Jack hadn’t been asleep on him when the docs had told him, he would probably have run and hidden until he could wrap his head around it.

“So… we’re together?” Phil finally asked tentatively.

“I have no idea,” Clint said. He hadn’t gotten around to asking that part. Hadn’t been ready for the answer or what it could mean – if it could even mean anything at all. “How is Sylvia?”

Natasha poked him under the table for changing the subject, but really what did she expect? That Phil would suddenly jump to the conclusion that they were meant to be together just because two other versions of themselves were? Yeah, Clint didn’t think so. The last thing he needed was for Phil to start thinking about it, because then he might notice _Clint_ was very much not adverse to the idea, and where would _that_ leave them? Nowhere good, that was where. 

Besides, they may not even be together. Jack shouldn’t be possible, so what were the odds the relationship between his parents was normal?

At least the mention of his girlfriend made Phil smile.

“She’s good – great even. The New York Philharmonic offered her a permanent position. It’s her dream job so she’ll be finishing this season in Portland and then move back here. Stark is denying any involvement, but you know how he is…”

“That’s great.” Clint forced a smile he hoped looked natural – he would have to work some more on that. But at least it looked like he would get plenty of practice.

Until then he could count Natasha to have his back.

“Come on,” she told Phil, pushing herself to her feet. “I’ll drive you home before Fury decides you’re overdoing it and kicks you out of the building.”

“We need to stop for food,” Phil said as the two of them made their way towards the door.

“Pizza?”

“They have pizza in Portland, you know. Clint?” Phil stopped in the doorway, frowning slightly when he realised Clint was still sitting. “Are you coming?”

Clint hesitated for less than a heartbeat.

“Sorry, there is somewhere I’ve got to be,” he said.

“Okay,” Phil said. “See you soon?” 

There was something almost tentative about the question, but Clint’s nod seemed to reassure Phil who nodded back with half a smile.

Nat shot him a look before disappearing after him. _‘Be careful,’_ it said, and Clint smiled in what he hoped was a reassuring manner. He couldn’t claim he knew what he was doing, but there was a Phil a few floors up who had just lost everyone he knew and loved, who was grieving and dying and who only cared about what happened to his son when he was gone. And maybe Clint couldn’t do anything about any of it, but at least he could make sure Phil didn’t go through it alone.

He headed back upstairs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember that warning? Good. :)

When Phil woke up the next morning, he took a moment to appreciate that he was warm and at a manageable level of pain, the near constant headache of the past few days reduced to a dull throbbing. He would enjoy it while it lasted – he had noticed he felt better in the mornings. 

Then a quiet giggle reached his ears, and he opened his eyes to be grateful for something else.

Clint was sitting cross-legged on the floor with Jack and a deck of cards, his back to Phil. He was doing some kind of magic trick and Jack seemed positively delighted in an oversized SHIELD T-shirt. He even looked clean – whoever had managed that feat had to be commended. The boy had decided water was the enemy a month ago, and bath time had been a nightmare ever since.

He must have made a sound, or Clint’s sixth sense for all things Phil was as developed in this universe as in the other, because Clint jumped to his feet.

“Hey, you’re awake.” He almost looked embarrassed at being caught playing.

“So it would appear,” Phil said mildly and Clint went still for a second, blinking at him.

“Sorry,” he said, shaking his head as if to clear it. “It’s just… you sounded a lot like Phil – him – right now. How are you feeling?”

Phil made himself smile, mindful of Jack watching them. “I’m okay. What are you doing here?”

Clint shrugged, rubbing the back of his head. He looked awkward again.

“Figured you could use some company.” He spared a smile in Jack’s direction, who beamed back at him.

“Look, Daddy!” Jack piped up, holding out his arms so Phil could admire his new attire.

“What are you wearing?” he asked, amused.

“Right, sorry about that,” Clint apologised again, and Phil almost frowned – he had no reason to. “I asked Nat to pick up some clothes for him on her way in. She should be here soon.”

“It’s fine,” Phil said. More than fine, really. Anything that made Jack smile was. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Clint quickly changed the subject: “You missed breakfast, do you want anything? I can go down to the cafeteria and grab you something.”

Phil grimaced at the mention of food. He hadn’t been able to keep dinner down after the debriefing with Fury, but he probably ought to make an effort.

“Toasts, maybe?” he asked, and Clint nodded.

“No problem, I’ll be right back.”

“Clint, wait!” Jack said imperiously before he could turn away. 

He had his arms up, and Clint looked confused for a second before he understood what Jack wanted and lifted him up onto the bed next to Phil.

“I like Clint,” Jack told him after the man had left.

“You do?” 

Jack nodded sagely, and added: “He doesn’t do the voices like Daddy when he tells stories though.”

Phil smiled – he could see how that would be an unforgivable offense –, and a sharp knock interrupted them before he could say anything else.

“Come in,” he called out, and Natasha pushed the door open. She had a couple of bags in one hand – the promised clothes, no doubt –, and examined Phil critically after planting herself at the foot of the bed.

“Agent Romanoff,” he said, the formal approach made less so by Jack’s enthusiastic “Hi, Tasha!”

“Natasha is fine,” she told him, smiling at Jack, and he relaxed.

It was very good to see her. 

The loss of Natasha just weeks after Clint’s had been a blow. Phil didn’t blame her, not in the slightest – if he hadn’t had Jack, he would have gone with her to hunt down those responsible for Clint’s death. They hadn’t heard from her since, and Phil had never stopped hoping, but– Well, that didn’t really matter anymore. She was dead either way.

“I brought clothes,” she said, thrusting the bags forward, and Jack scrambled forward eagerly to see what was in it, almost falling off the bed in the process – he hadn’t inherited his father’s natural balance. Luckily Natasha caught him before Phil could pull out his IV by doing so himself. 

She handed Jack one of the bags and let him explore to his heart’s content before turning back towards Phil.

“I have some for you too,” she told him. “In case you want to lose the hospital gown.”

That… would be great actually. He could really use a shower too.

“Go,” she said, gesturing towards the bathroom as if reading his mind. “I’ll watch Jack.”

It didn’t take Phil long to detach the monitors – though it did throw the staff into a panic, and Phil got a scolding once they realised he was not, in fact, in cardiac arrest. Since they were there, they helped disconnecting the IVs, and Phil stepped into the bathroom with relief.

The shower felt good, but Phil didn’t linger. He didn’t feel too steady on his feet, and he was still unwilling to leave Jack alone for too long.

The clothes Natasha had brought fit perfectly, and he wondered briefly if they belonged to the other Phil – wondered what it would be like to meet him before dismissing the idea. The whole alternate universe situation was weird enough when it came to people he knew, an alternate version of _himself_ felt too strange to contemplate. He would worry about it later. 

When he came out of the bathroom, Clint was back with his toasts and Jack was dressed. None of _his_ clothes fitted very well – as he had already deduced, there was no alternate Jack here.

A nurse came and reattached the IV bags, and Phil set off trying to ingest some food he wouldn’t throw up.

Natasha had brought some toys along with the clothes, and Jack was happily making a mess of the room, leaving the adults to stare at each other in awkward silence. Clint and Natasha seemed to be having one of their silent conversations, and she was the one who finally brought up the subject.

“So. Can men get pregnant in your world? Because _that_ I’d really like to see.”

Clint sputtered, an indignant “Nat!” bursting out of him even as Phil chuckled.

“No, we don’t. Jack was an accident – a wonderful accident.”

Clint shot a worried look at Jack, and Phil wondered why until he realised calling Jack an accident within earshot of him may give Clint the wrong impression.

“Don’t worry, he loves the story.”

Jack looked up from his puzzle.

“Can I tell the story, Dad?” he asked excitedly, and when Phil nodded he schooled his expression to an approximation of solemnity – it was a well-rehearsed tale. “One day, something fell from the sky. No one knew what it was, but things don’t just appear out of nowhere, so SHIELD sent my dads to investigate. Except they weren’t my dads yet – obviously. They looked and looked but they couldn’t figure what it was,” some disbelief crept into Jack’s voice at that, making Phil bite back a fond smile. “But then, the machine turned itself on. See, it could make babies, and it knew my dads loved each other very much, so it decided to make me for them. They didn’t realise it at first, but the machine wouldn’t turn off so they asked Uncle Tony to take a look, and he saw I was inside. And everybody was very happy.”

He beamed at Clint and Natasha, who both looked a little confused, and Phil cut in to explain – the story they had told Jack, while technically true, wasn’t the most enlightening for adults.

“It was some sort of incubator. Clint touched it, it turned itself on, and before we knew it, it had taken samples from both our DNAs. Nine months later, there was Jack.”

“The two of you were already together back then?” Natasha asked idly.

“Yes. We got married seven years ago,” he told her, glancing at Clint. His face was blank, and Phil couldn’t begin to guess what he was trying to hold at bay. “I guess… you’re not?” he asked, and Clint shook his head sharply.

“No,” he said with a shrug.

“Phil is seeing someone,” Natasha elaborated.

Ah.

Well, not everything had to be the same.

“So tell me, any other difference I should know about?” he said, changing the subject less than smoothly.

“Well, I guess it started with Thor,” Clint said, having regained some expressiveness. “Well, no, maybe it was Stark, but you’ve got Stark, right?”

Phil nodded, and Clint launched into a summary of the past few years with frequent interruptions from Natasha, keeping it PG-rated in case Jack lost interest in his toys and started eavesdropping. They had just gotten to the part about Captain America and defreezing him – dear God, _Captain America_ was _alive_ – when a nurse poked her head in.

“Agent Barton, Dr Brooks called, he thought you might be here. You missed your appointment.”

Clint winced. “Shit,” he muttered, glancing at his watch, before realising what he had said and shooting a mildly panicked look at Phil. “I mean, shoot?”

“He said to call if you wanted to reschedule, otherwise he’s still free if you want to come down now.”

“Thanks.”

She left, and Clint looked at Natasha who gave him a slight nod.

“Right. I guess I’d better go,” he said with a forced smile. “See you later.”

Phil watched him leave. It was entirely possible that the Dr Brooks in this universe had chosen a different specialty. It was also possible it was a different Dr Brooks entirely. Still, he had to ask:

“Psych?”

Natasha looked back at him steadily.

“We were getting to that part,” she said, sadness colouring her tone. “But I’m not telling you anything that isn’t common knowledge,” she warned, and Phil gestured at her to go on.

She told him about Loki and Clint and the attack on the helicarrier, briefly touching on what had followed in New York and thinking their Phil was dead, only to find out he wasn’t. 

“He still isn’t sleeping well,” he pointed out when Natasha stopped talking, and she shot him a dark look.

“I know,” she said in a way that made Phil feel like an ass. He had only met this Clint twenty-four hours ago – most of which he had spent either asleep or unconscious – and she had been dealing with this for five months. Of course she knew.

“Phil would like to meet you,” she said after a few moments of silence they spent watching Jack play. “If you think that’s okay with Jack.”

Phil kept his eyes on Jack as he thought about it. Meeting the other Phil might help, actually. First with Jack, to fully convince him that the people here weren’t the ones they had known. Phil feared he was still clinging to the notion that Clint was his father despite what he had said – he couldn’t blame him for it, not when he himself wished he could just forget everything and pretend –, but it would only hurt him more in the long-run.

Second, the more people cared about Jack the better it would be for him when Phil was gone. If it meant manipulating people into loving him, Phil would do it. He wasn’t proud of it, but truth be told he was past caring. He was dying. He wanted – _needed_ – to know Jack would be safe. Even if that meant other people – another Phil – taking the place he now held in his heart.

“Okay,” he finally said, and Natasha nodded approvingly.

“I’ll tell him. He’s probably lurking on Level 1.”

“Lurking?”

“Fury doesn’t want him in the building. He is supposed to be resting.”

Phil smiled slightly. Some things didn’t change.

\---

Phil was indeed lurking on Level 1 – less risky than Level 2, where the chances of running into Fury were small but non-negligible. After spending three months in Portland in Sylvia’s company, his apartment had felt too empty. 

He was bored.

If part of him had hoped to run into Clint to make sure the man really was okay, well who could blame him? While he could not feel sorry for moving to Portland for the duration of his recovery – for the chance it had given him to make things right with Sylvia –, he did regret not being there for Clint during the worst of it. They had talked, and Clint had visited a few times, but he couldn’t help feeling he had let Clint down.

He didn’t think he would ever forget the look on Clint’s face the first time he had woken up in Medical, the despair and relief so great it had taken Phil’s breath away. He had been reminded of it just yesterday, when Natasha had barged into Sylvia’s apartment at 2 am, scaring her half to death – and Phil too. Clearly he had been out of the field too long. Natasha hadn’t said much: she had just dialled HQ, and an hour later, Phil had found himself on a plane heading to New York. It had been even more hours before he had been able to talk to Clint, and the badly concealed panic in his voice that had only started to fade by the time they had hung up had told him that whatever was happening was bad.

And now he found himself with a double from another dimension, one who was dying and had a son with no other than Clint Barton. 

Phil was curious.

Maybe he _should_ have stayed home. At least he wouldn’t have been so frustratingly close to everything and forcefully kept away at the same time – damn Fury and his overbearingness. Granted, he had almost died on the man, but it was no reason to react so outrageously.

He was contemplating stealing a key card and sneaking into the staircase when Clint got out of the elevator. He looked tired and rumpled, still wearing his clothes from the day before and a worn-out look he only got after a session with Dr Brooks. Phil winced in sympathy, and cursed Fury again for cutting down his clearance – he didn’t even have access to the summary of those sessions anymore. 

“Hey,” Clint said with a slight smile that still managed to reach his eyes, lifting a weight off Phil’s shoulders. “Nat said I would find you here. I’m supposed to smuggle you upstairs.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” he said with feelings, and Clint grinned for a split second before his expression shuttered again.

“Don’t mention it.”

With a quick glance around, Clint swiped his card at the elevator, giving a mock salute at the security camera before pushing Phil into the elevator with him.

He had meant to use that time to talk to Clint, but as they went up, he found himself inexplicably nervous. He shouldn’t be, he had no reason to, and yet–

“What is he like?” he asked.

“Jack?” Clint’s smile lasted longer this time. “Great, you’ll like him.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“What about me? What am I like?”

Clint shrugged, facing the front of the car again. “Pretty much the same, I guess.”

They reached their floor, preventing Phil from asking more questions, and he followed Clint out. He could do this, he told himself, and then there was a little boy running out of a room up to Clint, laughing when he lifted him up in the air.

“Clint, you’re back!” he – Jack – said with a huge smile. 

The first thing that struck Phil was how much he looked like Clint. The second was how relaxed Clint now appeared, as if he had put aside his worries in favour of making the child laugh again. Except all his efforts turned out to be for nothing, because Jack caught sight of Phil and his face just… fell. 

Phil almost took a step back, feeling his own face mirror Jack’s.

“Who’s that?” Jack asked in a wobbly voice, staring at him.

Phil felt at a complete loss, unprepared to deal with being the cause of so much disappointment from such a little person.

“That’s Phil,” Clint said tentatively, looking as confused by his reaction as Phil felt.

“I want Daddy.” Jack sounded on the verge of tears, and Clint shot an apologetic look at Phil before heading into the room.

“Look what I found,” Phil heard him say with a cheerfulness that was all forced, and then his own voice, slightly hoarse:

“What’s wrong, Jack?”

There was no response, and Phil peered into the room, trying to figure out what he had done wrong. He met his counterpart’s eyes over Jack’s head, and the sudden understanding he saw there told him at least his double had some clues as to what was going on.

Jack was crying, face hidden in his father’s shoulder even as he held him close and stroked his hair, waiting for the sobs to subside. 

“Is there anything we can do?” Clint asked, hovering by the bed with a slightly anxious look on his face.

“No, just… Can we do this later?” the other Phil asked, tilting his head in Phil’s direction.

“Yeah, sure.”

Phil stepped back to let Clint and Natasha leave the room, his gaze drawn back towards the observation window.

It was beyond strange to look at someone else and see himself. He couldn’t spot any major difference between the two of them, nothing that would tell him how their worlds had diverged so completely. 

How he had ended up raising a child with _Clint_.

Phil had dated a few guys, a long time ago, and Clint was a very attractive man. But he was also Phil’s friend, and his subordinate, and Phil had never let himself contemplate anything more. He didn’t regret it and was happy with the way things were, but clearly this Phil had made a different decision.

Looking at Clint now, he had to wonder if–

“You should go get some lunch,” the man in question said, interrupting his line of thought. “I’ll wait here.”

Phil frowned. “You need to eat something,” he pointed out, but Clint shrugged.

“Bring me back something.”

Phil opened his mouth to argue, but Natasha shook her head slightly at him.

“Fine,” Phil said, fighting to keep the frustration out of his voice. It wouldn’t be fair to take his confusion out on Clint – not that he seemed to notice Phil’s turmoil, eyes still glued to the glass window. 

“What’s going on with Clint?” he asked Natasha over lunch, and she looked back at him blankly – meaning she knew, and she wasn’t going to tell him. It was reassuring: if something _was_ very wrong, she would speak up.

“He’s working through it,” she finally said. “Besides, you know Clint: looking after people is how he feels better.”

That much was true: Clint liked taking care of people. He was unobtrusive and sneaky about it, and most of the time Phil didn’t realise he was being handled until Clint had somehow dragged him away from the pile of paperwork on his desk. Phil would then find himself with a plate of food in front of him or – on some memorable occasions – tucked away in bed. Not for the first time, he felt a pang of guilt for depriving the man of his main coping mechanisms in the past few months. He should have insisted that Fury reassign Natasha to New York, at least. Clint had a tendency of spending too much time in his own head when he had no distraction, and his head had not been a good place to be recently.

The more he thought about it, the more it made sense that Clint would be focused on their ‘visitors’ and try to make things easier for him. However, in this particular case there was nothing he _could_ do, nothing that would change the outcome, and Phil couldn’t help worrying about what that would do to Clint.

\---

Clint needed to get a grip. When he had promised himself he would be there for Phil and Jack – had it really been less than two days? –, he hadn’t expected it to be like this. He had thought he would be able to keep some distance, keep the two Phil separate in his head. And Jack… well, Jack had taken him by surprise. He didn’t understand it, it made _no sense_ , but he was already too involved, too… attached. 

Every time he looked at Phil in that hospital bed, he saw _Phil_ in that other hospital bed. Every time he thought about what was to come, the nightmares that had been haunting him for months rushed back to the forefront of his mind. Clint couldn’t figure out whether Phil’s presence – his Phil, alive and well – made things better or worse. What he _did_ know was that the constant whiplash between the two made his brain hurt.

And then there was Jack.

Clint had never thought much about having kids. It had never been a possibility, and so he had never dwelled on the subject – no point in setting himself up for disappointment if he started to want one and it never happened. It wasn’t something he had particularly missed either – he had never felt like there was something missing in his life, some gap he had to fill. What did he know about children anyway?

Why then did Jack suddenly matter so much? Was it because he was part him, part Phil, an undeniable proof that in some universe Phil had wanted him – loved him? Or was it the serious face and quick smile that had managed to worm its way into Clint’s heart in record time?

But that way laid heartbreak, Clint told himself firmly. All the proof he needed for that was to look into the room where Jack was slowly calming down, snuffling wetly against Phil’s chest. The sight should not have been able to twist Clint’s heart as it did – and neither should meeting Phil’s eyes, sad and resigned.

_‘Everything okay?’_ Clint mouthed at him, and Phil shook his head. Stupid question, really: from the looks of it, nothing had been okay in quite a while.

Clint looked away, giving them some privacy, but otherwise remained at his post until Nat and Phil came back from the cafeteria. Phil shoved a sandwich in his hands, and watched him eat sternly. When Clint was done, he shook the crumbs off his jacket and gave him a pointed look – _happy now?_ From the half smile he got in answer, Phil was. At least _he_ was easy to please. 

In the room, the other Phil was now reading a children’s book to Jack, who appeared listless and withdrawn. He gestured them inside, and struck up a conversation with his double – which was beyond weird, Clint thought. Jack on the other hand was ignoring them, picking at the corner of the blanket. He eventually let himself be drawn into the discussion, warming up to Phil as he looked back and forth between him and his father with curious eyes, cataloguing similarities and differences with something close to fascination. He still refused to engage Clint, however, and Clint had to try very hard to pretend it didn’t matter. 

He must have done something wrong.

They kept the meeting short – they were all familiar with Phil’s tells, and alternate universe or not, the tight look around his eyes and mouth all pointed towards Phil not feeling well.

“Could you take Jack for a tour?” he asked his double, though it obviously pained him. “He’s been stuck in here with me since yesterday.”

“I’d be happy to,” Phil said seriously. “Parameters?”

The other looked away at Jack, who was practically bouncing with excitement at the prospect. “Just… stay inside HQ. For now.”

“Are you coming too?” Jack asked Natasha, looking even more delighted when she agreed, and Clint was already planning to sneak away quietly when Phil stopped him.

“Clint, can you stay for a second?”

“Sure,” he said, waving the others away and sitting back down.

“I think you need to know that you – the other you, Jack’s dad – died. Seven months ago.” Phil looked away, swallowing hard, and Clint couldn’t stop himself, he reached out and took his hand, squeezing it in support. Phil looked almost startled by the touch, but then he turned his hand around and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to link their fingers together. 

Clint was so screwed. 

“Jack knows his father is dead, but seeing you… I guess no matter what I told him, part of him wanted to believe you were his father,” Phil explained haltingly. “That he had come back. Seeing Phil – your Phil – drove home the fact that you’re not him. That he was never coming back.”

“I’m sorry,” Clint said quietly and Phil shook his head sharply before wincing – headache, right.

“It’s hardly your fault.”

“Would it be better if I stayed away?” he asked the floor.

“I honestly don’t know.” Phil sighed. “Alternate versions of ourselves isn’t something I ever thought I would have to deal with. But Jack is tough – I hate that he’s had to be, but he is – and he likes you.”

“If you’re sure…” Clint said, feeling a little pleased. Jack _liked_ him.

“Do _you_ want to stay?”

Clint shrugged, fiddling with the bed sheet with his free hand. Then he remembered Jack had done the same thing, and made himself stop.

“I don’t want you to be alone,” he finally said.

“You don’t know me.”

He shrugged. That didn’t matter. “You’re still you.” _‘Which is why this is freaking me out so badly,’_ he didn’t add. “Besides, I’d want someone to do the same thing for Phil – my Phil – if he was in your shoes.”

They sat together in silence for a while, holding hands. It should have been awkward – it wasn’t.

“Does Jack know? About you?” Clint finally asked, breaking the fragile peace that had settled over them.

Phil looked away. “I haven’t told him yet. Before we came here, everything was going so fast, there was just no time, and since then… He’s been through so much, I was trying to enjoy what time I have left at full capacity with him before I break his heart again.”

Clint squeezed his hand, not knowing what else to do. He hadn’t felt this helpless since… well, since after Loki, when the doctors had said Phil was in a coma and all they could do was wait.

A knock interrupted them, and Clint craned his neck to see who it was. Shit. 

Rogers.

“Come in,” Phil said, and Rogers did just that, glancing around the room with obvious discomfort. Clint couldn’t really blame the guy – from what he heard, mostly from Phil, the man had spent a lot of time around doctors when he was younger.

“Hello, Agent Coulson, Barton,” Rogers nodded at him, eyes pausing on their clasped hands for less than a heartbeat, something Clint resolutely refused to think about. If Phil wasn’t letting go, he wasn’t either. “I wanted to see if you were feeling better.”

Phil blinked. And blinked again. To Clint’s amusement he was staring at Rogers with a mix of consternation and awe, and the man shot Clint a concerned look, clearly wondering what the hell was going on.

“Has Fury debriefed you?” Clint asked. 

Rogers frowned. “About…?”

Awesome.

Before he could answer, Jack bounded into the room with Phil and Natasha in tow, and Clint bit back a groan. Their timing sucked. 

“Good afternoon, Captain,” Phil said, and it was Rogers’s turn to stare.

“You… have a twin?” he ventured, looking back and forth between the two Phils.

“Not exactly.”

Jack, who had frozen in the middle of the room at the sight of the stranger and temporarily forgotten he was ignoring Clint in favour of hiding behind him, peered at Rogers.

“I know you,” he stated firmly, temporarily distracting the adults.

“Uh, hi?” Rogers said, attempting to rally. “I’m Steve Rogers. I don’t think I know _you_.”

Jack’s eyes went wide. “You’re Captain America?” he asked, and Clint snorted.

“Of course you’ve read him your comic books,” he muttered to Phil, who nodded numbly, letting go of Clint’s hand to straighten his clothes and pat his hair down. Clint resolutely didn’t find his fanboying cute – just like he didn’t find it cute when Phil started rambling about his vintage cards.

“They’re very good comic books,” Phil said absently, eyes still on Rogers, and Clint shot an amused look at his Phil, wondering what his reaction to Rogers had been like. He got an eyeroll in response, but no matter – Natasha would tell him.

“Yes, I am,” Rogers was telling Jack, and the boy looked ecstatic. 

“I’m Jack. My dad has all your comic books!”

“Nice to meet you, Jack,” Rogers said, still looking a little thrown, but he made an effort to smile, and shook Jack’s hand solemnly. That was why Clint liked the guy. Nothing fazed him for long – probably a side-effect from waking up seventy years in the future. “So, what’s going on?” Rogers asked to the room at large.

“Why don’t we step outside, Captain?” Phil said with a sigh.

Clint leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, flexing his hand absently. Fury was going to kill them.

\---

Over the next couple of days, Phil’s condition remained stationary. He still felt like crap – there was only so much the drugs could do against the near constant headache, nausea and other gastrointestinal symptoms. He was getting more tired, but he was used to ignoring physical discomfort. And if there was a nagging voice at the back of his mind telling him it wasn’t mere discomfort this time, he was _dying_ , well he ignored that too.

He had a constant stream of visitors, which kept Jack happy – and therefore kept _Phil_ happy. Natasha and the other Phil stopped by often, either to get Jack out of the room or to drag Clint away for an hour or two. Captain Rogers also visited every afternoon, to Jack’s delight – and Phil’s too. It was _Captain America_!

Clint though… Clint was there more often than he wasn’t. He seemed to know when Phil wanted him around and when he didn’t, when he felt poorly and needed someone to distract Jack, and when he wanted to spend some quality time alone with his son. Phil hadn’t fully understood it at first, but then he had put himself in Clint’s shoes and realised he would never have left a version of Clint to die alone. Even if this Clint didn’t have the same relationship with his Phil than he had had, they obviously cared about each other.

As predicted, Jack’s attitude towards Clint had thawed again, a bit tentatively at first, but they were getting there. Phil was glad – Jack would need someone to rely on after he was gone, and it couldn’t be the other Phil. As much as Jack seemed to enjoy having him around, the chances that he would resent him for being there when Phil himself wasn’t were too high. Really, he almost felt sorry for the guy. 

Phil knew he was taking advantage of Clint’s overdeveloped sense of responsibility. That putting all his hopes and expectations on him wasn’t fair – Clint hadn’t asked to have a child dropped into his lap, even less one who was traumatised and mourning. But then Phil hadn’t asked for any of this either. He didn’t _want_ his son to be raised by someone who looked like his dead husband, with a copy of himself in the background. Maybe it was selfish, but he didn’t want Jack to forget them, his early memories of them fading away to be replaced with new ones with those two strangers. He wanted to raise his son himself, and he wanted Clint back, and he didn’t want to die, damn it!

Phil wiped angry tears from his eyes before they could fall. Jack would be back from dinner soon, he had to get himself under control. He managed to muster a smile for him when he did, and when later Jack asked if he could sleep with him, Phil didn’t have the heart to tell him no. 

\---

On the fifth day, Phil threw up blood, and on the sixth he started losing his hair. It freaked Jack out so badly Clint had to call Natasha to look after him for a while. Once he had calmed down, Phil sat him down and told him.

There was a moment of complete incomprehension on Jack’s face before he understood Phil’s carefully chosen words, so much like when he had had to tell him Clint was dead, and it broke Phil’s heart all over again.

Jack yelled and screamed and threw things, and when that wasn’t enough he ran out of the room. Clint found him hiding in an empty room on their floor, and he let him cry his heart out before bringing him back to Phil, exhausted and miserable. He was asleep by the time Clint laid him down next to his father whose face was as tear-streaked as Jack’s. Brushing away Phil’s broken _“Thank you”_ , he left them alone to grieve, keeping watch from the other side of the door.

The next day Jack didn’t want anything to do with Phil – either of them. Phil hardly noticed: he had woken up disorientated, something the doctors had warned them could happen. From then on he had alternating bouts of clarity and confusion, and his white blood cell count plummeted. The doctors insisted on putting him in isolation, finally using the room for its original purpose, and Phil’s visitors were an endless parade of masked faces and gloved hands – not that it ended up mattering: he developed pneumonia two days later, the low grade fever he had had for a while spiking critically high and making him more agitated.

Clint was the only constant, his eyes endlessly patient over his mask, and whenever Phil was lucid enough to realise that, he would tell him about Jack – about his birthday and when his next vaccinations were due, about his favourite bedtime stories, his favourite food and how he refused to eat anything green. He spoke of Jack not having been outside in over four months because it had become too dangerous, living in the bunker under HQ instead, of how they had thought he might need glasses because he kept squinting at things but hadn’t had time to have his eyes checked out properly. He told Clint about the cat they had almost had, about the one time they had let Tony babysit him and why that was not to be repeated. About all the times the job had gotten in the way and he wished it hadn’t.

Sometimes he would get confused and tell Clint he loved him. Clint would hold his hand then, and smile sadly.

“He’s going to forget me,” Phil said once, disconsolately. “And he’ll forget you too.”

“He won’t,” Clint said, “I’ll tell him about you.”

“You will?” Phil frowned, confused.

“I promise.”

Despite everything else, that was still good enough for him.

Phil got to say goodbye to Jack properly in one of his now rare moments of lucidity. He didn’t get to say goodbye to Clint, because by then he was convinced Clint was his dead husband. He didn’t understand when Clint told him he would look after Jack. Of course Clint would look after Jack, he was his father, wasn’t he?

When the doctors shook their heads and told them it wouldn’t be long, Natasha took Jack to another room, where she was joined in a silent vigil by Phil and – maybe not surprisingly – Rogers, who took it upon himself to keep Jack distracted. 

They turned off the alarms, and Clint climbed into bed with Phil and held him. His skin was paper dry and too hot, and he clung to Clint weakly, his delirious ramblings interspaced by coughing fits that left him breathless and shaken. Eventually he fell silent, maybe unconscious. Clint closed his eyes and kept track of each wheezing breath he took, of the way the interval between them grew longer and longer each time.

When Phil stopped breathing, no one came to bother them.

Clint carefully untangled himself, rearranging the bed sheets gently around Phil until it almost looked like he was sleeping. When he was satisfied he sat down heavily on the floor and finally, _finally_ allowed himself to break down and cry.

\---

Phil was worried about Clint. That in itself was nothing new: he was always worried about Clint, just like he worried about Natasha and all the agents he considered _his_. That was what Phil _did_ , and if he had thought at one time it would get easier once he was responsible for fewer assets, he had long been deprived of that semi-comforting hope. If anything, it had made things worse, giving him time to know them as individuals as well as agents, to become their friends – Clint first, always Clint, getting under his skin in ways Phil couldn’t have predicted, and then Natasha because how could she not? And that had just the beginning if Fury’s thinly veiled allusions were to be believed.

Rationally he knew they were perfectly capable of looking after themselves. He worried anyway, and felt better when he had an eye on them – only then could he be reasonably sure they weren’t getting shot or stabbed or pushed off buildings.

Such was Phil’s life, and he had accepted it. 

Still he couldn’t have foreseen _this_ , this visit from another universe, and Clint taking it upon himself to handle the situation on his own – not that either Phil or Natasha had let him, taking turn in dragging him away to make sure he ate and slept.

Phil had admired Clint’s resolve as much as he had hated it, because he had known what it would do to him. He would inevitably get too attached, transference at its worse – Phil had known _that_ since he had seen the two of them holding hands a week ago, because he remembered waking up in Medical almost six months ago to something similar. But Phil hadn’t died, and the other him would, bringing back everything Clint was finally starting to move past. 

He knew he couldn’t ask Clint to stop caring – that was what he did, who he was –, so he worried instead. 

At least with physical threats, Clint could protect himself.

Now their visitor – he tried hard not to think of him as Phil – was dying two doors away, and there was nothing they could do. Nothing Phil could do – when he had tried, he had been gently but firmly shown the door. Clint had always been stubborn.

Instead they waited. Jack had finally fallen asleep, and Natasha was dozing between him and the door. Rogers, whose sense of duty was as developed as Clint’s, was sitting as well. Phil though… Phil was pacing back and forth, and Natasha cracked an eye open to glare at him. He was overdoing it again.

A quiet knock interrupted their stand-off and brought Phil to the door. He opened it, and one of the nurses shook her head silently. It was over.

And still no Clint.

“Go,” Natasha told him. She would keep watch over Jack. No point in waking him now, the news could wait ‘til morning.

Phil found Clint sitting on the floor, staring blankly at a point on the wall in front of him. The medical staff was moving quietly around the bed, pulling out IVs and disconnecting monitors. At least Jack would get to see his father one last time without all the equipment.

He kneeled next to Clint, and when that didn’t get a reaction, he put a careful hand on his face, wiping tears away before applying the slightest of pressure to make Clint look at him.

“Clint,” he said softly, and Clint blinked as he slowly focused on him.

“Hey,” Clint croaked, voice hoarse and bewildered. “You’re dead.”

Shit.

“No, I’m not,” he said. “See, I’m right here.” 

He took Clint’s hand and put it on his chest where he could feel his heartbeat. Clint blinked again, looking confused, and Phil gave him the time he needed to come to his own conclusions.

“You’re here,” Clint finally agreed, looking at the bed and back to Phil, and some of the blankness finally lifted from his face. “Jack’s father died.”

Phil nodded, his concern alleviated for now. “I know. I’m sorry.”

A complicated expression crossed Clint’s face – there was relief and guilt, and something else Phil couldn’t identify – and he looked away, back towards the wall.

“Come on,” Phil said softly, tugging him to his feet before he could close himself off again. “You need to get some rest.”

“Jack–”

“He’s sleeping. It can wait.”

Clint let Phil guide him out of the room without further protests, and Phil took advantage of his uncharacteristic compliance to find an empty bed and direct him into it. Only then did Clint seem to rouse himself, grabbing Phil’s arm when he was pulling the covers over him.

“Stay?” he asked, not meeting his eyes.

“Of course.” Phil hadn’t planned on going anywhere. 

He kicked off his shoes, his jacket long discarded, and got into bed with Clint. It was too small for the two of them, and they had to lie on their side, facing each other. But they had made do with much less in the field. In fact there was a comforting familiarity in having Clint so close, and Phil put a hand on his arm, knowing from experience that physical contact would help.

They were silent for a long time, Clint’s breathing slowing down until Phil thought he had fallen asleep.

“You have to stop dying on me,” Clint said in the quiet, the words rough with too many emotions. It hurt Phil to hear him sound so lost, and he wrapped his arm around Clint before he could think better of it, pulling him as close as he could get.

It seemed to be the right thing to do, because Clint clung back to him just as desperately.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Phil promised, and Clint shuddered against him.

“I want to keep him. I want to keep Jack,” he said, suddenly urgent as he pulled back to look at Phil.

“Okay,” he answered – what else _could_ he say?

“I can resign, I’ll look after him, I want –”

“Clint– _Clint_!” Phil cut him off, vaguely alarmed by the ramblings. “It’s okay, we can sort it out later. I’ll help.”

“You will?”

“Of course.” He had fallen in love with the kid as much as Clint had – it was hard not to. He wasn’t going to let anything happen to him.

“Okay, that’s good…” Clint trailed off with a yawn, finally giving in to exhaustion now that his fears had been assuaged.

Phil held him through the night, his mind churning with obstacles and possibilities.

What on earth was he going to tell Sylvia? She knew he worked for SHIELD – no more secrets had been part of the agreement when they had gotten back together. She accepted there were things he wouldn’t be able to tell her, but what he _could_ tell her, he would. He wasn’t sure how to bring up ‘son from an alternate universe’ though – especially when said son’s other parent was Clint Barton.

He would have to figure it out quickly.


	3. Chapter 3

Clint was screwing it up. He _knew_ he was. He wasn’t ready for this, wasn’t ready to be responsible for the wellbeing of a tiny human who had just suffered a huge loss. He wasn’t equipped to deal with Jack – not when part of him insisted _‘better his father than Phil’_ every time he took the time to think about it.

What the fuck had he been thinking?

The past few days had been an ordeal for everyone, Jack too stricken with grief to do more than cry himself to sleep and eat when someone made him. The funeral had been a small affair with only a handful of people present, and Jack had sobbed all the way through it, refusing the comfort Clint had tried to give him. But there had been a sort of finality associated to it, as if a page had been turned, and now Clint found himself faced with the daunting task of leaving the relative safety of HQ behind and taking Jack home with him. 

He couldn’t do it. His apartment only had one bedroom, where was Jack going to sleep? Well, no, that one was actually easy – Jack would take his bed. Where was _Clint_ going to sleep? And what about clothes and food and toys – and everything else? He hadn’t had time to buy anything.

What about _Jack_? 

What if taking him in was not the right thing for him? What if they were making things worse by constantly reminding him of what he had lost? Maybe it would be better to find him a nice family who wouldn’t be the ghosts of people he had known. Yet the thought of letting him go filled Clint with unprecedented dread. He didn’t understand it – it shouldn’t be possible for him to care about Jack as much as he did, it was too fast, it made _no sense_ , but there was no point denying it: he loved the kid, and he would just have to suck it up and make it work.

He spent an hour rambling about it to the child psychologist SHIELD had brought in to help with the transition. She assured him that what he was feeling was perfectly normal, and that his presence wasn’t hurting Jack – although Agent Coulson should give him some space for now. Being around Phil sent Jack into fits of hysterics, and they had all agreed he needed time to grieve for his father properly before reintroducing him to Phil. 

Clint foresaw a lot of sessions with Dr Finchmore in their future.

Natasha drove them home, something he would be forever grateful for. Jack was passive in the backseat, staring at the streets.

“It doesn’t look like home,” he said in a small voice, and Clint fought against the urge to apologise.

“I know, sweetheart.” The moniker slipped out before he could stop it – it was something he had heard Phil call Jack many times –, and he cursed himself when it made Jack clam up again.

Natasha shot him a sympathetic look, and the rest of the drive was spent in morose silence.

Clint hadn’t been to his apartment in over two weeks – not since all this had started –, and he was relieved Nat and Phil had made it presentable. They had bought a bunch of stuff for Jack too – Phil had said it made him feel useful, since it was all he could do right now –, and Clint thought that maybe he could do this after all.

Until Natasha was called back to HQ, and he found himself alone with Jack.

The first day was bad.

The second was worst. 

The third– the third somehow managed to beat the first two. 

They had braved the crowds to buy a few things for Jack that they were missing, Clint only realising his mistake too late. He should have called Nat and asked her to look after Jack while he did the shopping alone. Jack wasn’t used to the constant throng of people around them, and Clint was paranoid about losing him. Things got marginally better when he picked him up, carrying him around while he went through the list of things they needed as quickly as possible, but by the time they made it home, they were both exhausted and cranky. Then Clint tried to get Jack to eat his vegetables, and he exploded.

“You’re not my dad!” he yelled, the plate breaking as it hit the floor. “I wish you were dead instead of him!”

Then he burst into tears and ran to the bedroom, hiding under the bed and refusing to let Clint near him. Clint eventually gave up, going back to the kitchen to pick the remnants of dinner from the floor. He wished he could go and hide too, except that was off the table now: he couldn’t leave Jack alone. 

The outburst shouldn’t have affected him as much as it did – the shrink had said Jack would probably lash out at them, and Clint was currently the only target available. But he hated feeling helpless, and there was little worse than listening to Jack cry because he couldn’t figure out what to say or do.

Phil would be so much better at this.

The fourth day was better – from a certain point of view. Jack was subdued and quiet, refusing to meet his eyes. Clint preferred the yelling.

On the fifth, Clint decided they both needed a change. If Jack had been stuck in SHIELD’s bunker for months, surely he could do with some fresh air, and not the kind that came from stores. So he took Jack to the park a few blocks from his building. It was mostly empty at this time of day, only a couple of elderly people walking their dog. It had snowed again and the grounds were white, and Jack stared at everything with wide eyes.

“Go on,” Clint said with an encouraging smile.

Jack loved the snow. His dad had forgotten to tell Clint that.

“I want to make a snowman,” Jack said decisively once he had explored his new domain, and then, more tentatively: “You can help.”

“Okay,” he answered, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

Clint had no idea how to make a snowman. He hadn’t had that many opportunities to play as a kid, but at least he had a general idea of how to go about things. It wasn’t rocket science, after all.

Their snowman was awesome.

Clint made them hot chocolate with little marshmallows when they got home, and if that made Jack tear up again, it didn’t feel as bad as before.

The sixth day was almost good. Natasha came by and listened attentively to Jack’s recounting of their trip to the park. She looked a little banged up, and Clint felt guilty for not being there to watch her back, but Psych had taken him off the field roster for now so he could be there for Jack. He couldn’t be sorry for that.

On the seventh, Tony Stark showed up on his doorstep.

“What are you doing here?” Clint asked.

“Can’t I just come by to say hi to a teammate?” Stark said innocently, pouting when Clint made no motion of letting him in. Jack was sleeping. It _was_ almost 11.

“We’re not teammates,” he pointed out, but stepped aside anyway. He’d rather not do this in the hallway.

Stark breezed past him. “The Avengers, baby,” he said, fluttering around the room. “I don’t know what the fuck SHIELD is doing, but I’ve decided to get the band back together. You may have heard – I could really have used all of you guys recently.”

He paused, picking up one of Jack’s books from the coffee table with a raised eyebrow.

“Nice reading material you’ve got here.” 

Clint snatched the book out of his hands, holding it carefully. It was Jack’s favourite.

“What do you want?” he asked. “In case you’ve forgotten, I work for SHIELD.”

“Well, to start with –” Stark glanced around the room with an unimpressed look on his face, “I want you to move into the Tower.”

Clint barked out a laugh. No way. 

“Come on, Banner and Rogers both said yes, Thor will if he ever comes back, and if you’re in, your girlfriend will be too. It’ll be fun!”

“Look, Stark, no offense, but your place isn’t exactly safe, is it?” It really wasn’t. The man himself was a trouble magnet: people were always trying to take him out, and his experiments blew up regularly. And what if Banner lost control? He would take down the whole building. Never mind the fact that the Tower would become target number one for any bad guy with a grudge against the Avengers. Clint wasn’t going to put Jack in the middle of that. 

Stark held up a hand, looking like he had anticipated the objection.

“Each floor has been Hulk-proofed, my security is state of the art, the labs have a different ventilation system, and in the unlikely event something does happen, you’d have back-up within seconds,” he enumerated. “Plus you’d have plenty of babysitters around.”

He paused, looking at Clint with a guileless and hopeful expression, and Clint sighed.

“Who told you?”

Stark shrugged. “I know everything. Also a little birdie wearing red, white and blue may have let it slip.”

Great.

“I need to talk to Phil about it.”

Stark waved a dismissive hand in the air. “You can bring your baby mama. In fact, he was going to be my next stop, but if you can convince him yourself it’d save me the trouble. I’m not ready for the trauma of seeing Agent in his Captain America pyjamas.”

Clint shook his head. “Phil’s seeing someone, he’s not going to want to move in.”

“What, the cellist? She can come too. You’ll be one big happy family. How does that work, by the way?”

“None of your business.” It sounded better than _‘I have no idea’_.

“Touchy. So you’ll move in?”

“I’ll think about it,” Clint conceded, and Stark considered it for a few seconds before shrugging. 

“Good enough. So. How are you doing?”

Clinked blinked at the awkward overture. 

“You want to talk about my feelings?” he asked, disbelief creeping into his tone.

“Fuck you, I can do sensitive.” Stark grinned, and whatever Clint may have replied to _that_ was lost when Jack peered into the room.

They must have woken him up. Clint was a terrible guardian.

“Which Tony are you?” Jack asked, squinting at Stark from behind Clint.

“Uh… I’m the me Tony?” Stark said, shooting a gleeful glance at Clint. Yes, Jack was wearing Captain America pyjamas and Stark could fuck off and die, Clint thought through a surge of protectiveness. It was the only thing that had made him smile since his father’s funeral.

His answer however seemed to satisfy Jack, who immediately dismissed him and tugged on Clint’s T-shirt. Clint stopped glaring at Stark and looked down at him, impulsively smoothing down his hair – it was a complete mess.

“I had a nightmare,” Jack whispered, and Clint didn’t examine the instinct that made him pick him up and cradle him close.

“It’s gonna be okay,” he said softly, his chest going a little tight when Jack wrapped his arms around his neck.

“Uh. You’re actually good at this,” Stark said contemplatively, and Clint went right back to glaring.

“Was there anything else?” he asked pointedly, and Stark raised his hands in surrender.

“I’m going, I’m going.” He went back to the door, opened it, and then stopped in the doorway, looking back at Clint. “When do you think you’ll move in?”

“Good _bye_ , Stark.”

The man laughed, stepping back just in time to avoid getting the door slammed in his face, and Clint locked it behind him with undisguised relief.

“Come on,” he told Jack, “let’s get you back to bed.”

 

Later, when Jack had gone back to sleep, Clint found himself thinking about Stark’s offer. He did need to talk it over with Phil – Natasha too, considering how much time she spent at his place under normal circumstances. It affected all of them.

They hadn’t discussed what would happen once everything settled down and Jack – hopefully – accepted Phil’s presence again. If Sylvia hadn’t been in the picture, Clint may have suggested that they find an apartment large enough for all of them and move in together, but she complicated things. A lot would depend on how she and Jack got along. 

Either way he did need to find another place, Clint thought as he laid down on the couch, wedging a pillow behind his head. This one just wasn’t big enough.

\---

Clint moved into Stark Tower a week after Stark’s visit. Phil didn’t help, because Jack still didn’t want to see him. The psychologist had said not to press the issue so they didn’t, and Phil tried not to let it bother him too much. But he was surprised to realise that he missed having the child around – missed his inquisitive nature and quick smile – just like Clint’s –, and the Captain America geekiness that could only come from him. They may not have met under very good circumstances, but there had been good days before Jack’s father got too sick to hide it. 

Phil missed those days.

Clint kept him regularly updated on how Jack was doing, and Phil was thankful for that. There were ups and downs, times when Clint sounded worn out and frustrated, and others when he was happy and excited. Phil didn’t know which was worse: feeling guilty for not being able to help Clint through the bad, or being jealous for missing the good. 

Phil kept busy to avoid thinking about it too much. Medical had cleared him for light duty, and while Fury still appeared reluctant to give him actual work to do, he had finally appointed him as liaison to the Avengers. It was an empty position – there had been no need for the team since Loki –, but Phil wasn’t about to complain. It gave him an excuse to be at Stark Tower and see how Clint was doing in person when Jack was busy elsewhere. 

Clint and Jack were acclimating well to their new environment. Natasha was with them more often than not, leading the rest of the team to assume she and Clint were together. It wasn’t Phil’s place to correct them – it had taken _him_ long enough to realise they weren’t a couple, though they were closer in many respects. It was only fair Phil got to enjoy other people’s confusion for a change.

Stark kept badgering him about moving in at every opportunity he got. Since Thor had come back Phil was the only holdout, and Stark didn’t take to failure very well once he had set his mind to something. While Phil could see the logic behind his arguments, he held firm in his refusal. He needed to discuss things with Sylvia before making any discussion, and he hadn’t even told her about Jack yet – it wasn’t the sort of discussion he wanted to have over the phone, even less on a not secure line. Springing a move to Tony Stark’s giant monstrosity on her in addition to everything else hardly seemed fair. They could decide together when she moved back east in a few months. 

“Hey,” Clint said, almost making him jump. Phil inwardly scowled – he was out of practice.

He set aside the file he had been absently looking at to gesture him in, and Clint collapsed on his couch with a scowl of his own.

“Everything okay?” Phil asked.

“Psych is putting me back on active duty,” Clint muttered at the ceiling.

Ah. 

The reminder for the appointment had showed up in Phil’s calendar earlier, and he had been waiting for the fallout ever since, knowing there would be one no matter the outcome. He knew Clint chafed at being kept away from the field, unable to back Natasha up – and the rest of the team, as business for the Avengers had picked up. And he also knew there was now a part of Clint that felt he should stay and protect Jack instead. Phil could hardly blame him.

He stood up, abandoning the distance of his desk to come and sit next to Clint, who obligingly shifted to make room for him.

“How do you feel about it?” he asked, and Clint gave him an unimpressed look that was ruined by the smile tugging at his lips.

“Cute,” he said, rolling his eyes, before he turned serious again. “Okay, I guess. I mean, it’s time, Jack’s fine, I’m fine – I am!” He insisted at Phil’s raised eyebrow. “It’s just– I don’t want to screw this up.”

“You won’t. You’re _not_ ,” Phil stated firmly. 

“You sure? Because let me tell you, sometimes I really have no idea what I’m doing,” Clint sighed.

“Dr Finchmore says Jack is adjusting well.”

“He has nightmares, Phil, and sometimes he expects people to know stuff that happened with their alternate version and then he realises what he’s doing, and he gets all sad and he doesn’t want to talk about it and I just… don’t know what to do.”

Clint slumped further down on the couch, and Phil ignored the uncomfortable twist in his chest, both at seeing Clint look so dejected and at the unfounded jealousy that at least _he_ got to spend time with Jack.

“Clint, it’s normal,” he said instead, “you can’t be expected to know everything. I just wish I could do something to help you.”

“Shit, sorry, sorry, I shouldn’t be complaining to you,” Clint said, sitting up suddenly, and Phil bit back a groan. Clint had always been too good at following Phil’s line of thoughts. It made them great in the field, but sometimes, Phil wished Clint wasn’t so damn perceptive. 

Clint ignored Phil’s “It’s fine” and ploughed on, “But hey, Finchmore said we could ask Jack how he feels about seeing you again, that’s good, right?”

He looked at him hopefully, and Phil forced a smile. “It’s great.”

It was, really. But it had been great last time too – until Jack had said no. Phil was trying not to get his hopes up.

“Oh, I’ve got something to show you,” Clint said, scrambling for his phone. Once he had found what he was looking for, he shoved it in Phil’s face with a grin. On the screen Jack was running around wearing a red cap, and suddenly Thor appeared in the frame and picked him up, carrying him over his head in an imitation of flight. Jack was shrieking with delight, and Phil thought he could hear a distorted version of Clint’s voice in the background telling Thor to _“not drop him, for fuc- fudge sake!”_

It made Phil smile almost despite himself. There they were, SHIELD’s most badass agents, grinning like besotted fools over a home video. Who would have thought?

“Who’s watching him now?” he asked.

“Who do you think?” Clint answered wryly, nodding towards his phone.

Of course.

It had surprised Phil at first to find out how good Thor was with – and _for_ – Jack. Looking back now, it shouldn’t have: there was something about Thor’s expansive personality that made children invariably like him. It also helped that Jack had never met his alter-ego, and therefore had no preconceived idea of how he should behave – the only Avenger this could be said about apart from Captain America, who came with his own set of baggage. 

“Tell me he hasn’t tried to make Jack lift his hammer,” Phil pleaded.

“Valour does not await age,” Clint quoted at him in all seriousness, and Phil must have looked as horrified as he felt because Clint cracked up, laughter dancing in his eyes.

“I should go,” he said, still chuckling as he stood up. Phil was glad to see that some of the doubt that had been hanging over him when he had come in was gone.

“I’ll call you tomorrow after I’ve talked to Jack, okay?” Clint added, and Phil nodded, trying to let Clint’s optimism bolster his own.

It would be fine.

 

Jack said no. 

 

Phil pretended not to mind too much. Instead he took a long weekend to fly to Portland and see Sylvia instead. 

Sitting in his last-minute seat at the Merrill Auditorium, he closed his eyes and let the music wash over him, feeling right at home when the first notes of cello solo rose in the air.

He had missed this.

“What’s wrong?” Sylvia asked him over a late dinner at her place. “You seem distracted.”

She looked concerned and a little wry, and not for the first time Phil wondered how he had managed to convince her to give their relationship another try. She deserved so much better than constant worry and half-truths.

“There is something I’ve got to tell you,” he said, putting his fork down. He wasn’t really hungry anymore.

She raised a curious eyebrow at him, sitting back as well, and Phil began.

He had spent a lot of time deciding what to tell her about Jack – and how. Fury had reluctantly agreed to let him use his own discretion, and he had discussed it with Clint. He had also rehearsed a dozen different speeches – Phil believed in being prepared –, and yet none of them had ever sounded right.

He and Sylvia had never discussed having children. Sylvia was in her late 30s, and they had been dating long enough before their break-up that the subject _could_ have come up. It hadn’t. She had seemed happy with the way things were, never giving any indication that she wanted more, and so Phil had assumed she didn’t particularly want kids – which meant he had no idea what the outcome of this talk would be. He knew she wouldn’t ask him to choose, but he had to hope it wouldn’t be the one thing that was finally too much for her.

Phil hated going into situations with insufficient intel.

He kept things simple. He told her about the portal and the other him and his son. How he had died, and Jack had found himself all alone. He glossed over why they couldn’t send him back to where he had come from, and didn’t mention Clint at all except to say he was looking after Jack until he could stand being in the same room as Phil again – which may never happen. That was something he and Clint had both agreed on, for Jack’s and Sylvia’s protection. The fewer people who knew about Jack’s connection to Clint, the safer he would be.

Sylvia took everything in thoughtfully, only asking a few questions. The rest of the weekend was quiet, and Phil had no clue what she was thinking: Sylvia had a great poker face – she said it came from being in front of an audience for decades. It was one of the things that had attracted him to her in the first place, but now he wished he knew what was going on in her head. 

She drove him to the airport to catch the red eye back to New York, and some of his anxiety must have shown on his face – God, he really was slipping – because she smiled and told him not to worry so much. They would figure it out.

Phil smiled back and kissed her. They would.

 

The next time Clint asked, Jack said yes.

 

It took time – a lot of time. There were moments in the beginning when Jack would look at Phil with a terribly hopeful look on his face that would crumple when he remembered, and Phil would wonder if they weren’t being needlessly cruel to the boy. Maybe he should just keep his distance, forget the whole thing. After all, Jack was doing fine without him, he didn’t need him. 

But kids were resilient and Jack more than most, either out of necessity or because he had inherited it from both his parents. Little by little, he started to relax around Phil – started to smile at him again. Phil treasured each and every one of those smiles, acutely conscious of how precious and fragile they were.

It wasn’t going to be easy, not for a while anyway, but it would all be worth it.

\---

Jack’s fifth birthday was in June. It had been almost six months since his father had died – two since he had tentatively agreed to see Phil –, and while things were going well, Clint didn’t know how he would cope with his first birthday without his parents. 

With that in mind, he had planned on doing something small and manageable, maybe go for ice cream with the few friends Jack had made at the playground and then have cake and presents with Phil and Nat, the rest of the team too if they were around. Of course, that was before Tony got wind of the upcoming event, and Clint lost all control over it.

At least Tony understood the need for discretion. Clint’s – and Natasha’s – pictures had been kept out of the press, and although Nat’s had eventually surfaced on the internet, Clint’s usual position in the field had allowed him to maintain some anonymity. He knew it wouldn’t last forever, but he would enjoy taking Jack to the park while he could. Tony, on the other hand, was still very much in the public eye – even more so than before, if that was possible. Him throwing a lavish kid birthday party would inevitably end up in the gossip pages and be the subject of speculations.

After days of negotiation, Clint gave up and left Natasha in charge of corralling Tony’s creative efforts – if all things failed, she could terrify him into submission, or sic Pepper on him. He had enough on his mind anyway: with the orchestra season over, Sylvia had moved into Phil’s apartment a couple of weeks ago, and they had agreed the party would be a good time to introduce her to Jack.

Clint’s feelings for Phil had taken a backseat in the past few months, but with the three of them finding a balance, they had come back with a vengeance. When it was just him, Phil and Jack, it was almost too easy to pretend but it never lasted: inevitably Phil would leave, go home, and Clint would be left floundering.

That too would stop with Sylvia there. Clint wasn’t petty enough to wish Jack wouldn’t like her, but if he did she would start being around more. And it would only be a matter of time until Jack spent time with them – without Clint. 

Things were bound to change.

 

When he and Jack came back from ice cream on his birthday, the Avengers, their significant others and an assorted party of SHIELD agents were there waiting for them, to Jack’s delight. There was cake and games and way too many presents, but it was pretty mild for a Stark party, and Clint nodded his thanks to the man. 

He kept an eye on Jack throughout the afternoon to make sure he was handling things okay, but he seemed to be having the time of his life. Clint smiled. Tony had done a good job.

Natasha found him when Phil was introducing Sylvia to Jack, leaning against his side in a silent show of support. They watched together, too far away to hear what they were saying and unable to read their lips from this angle, but their body language was relaxed and open. Jack was always a little shy around strangers, but he looked interested in what Sylvia was telling him – things seemed to be going well. 

Phil caught his eye then and smiled, relief written all over his face. Clint smiled back. 

_’Everything okay?’_ he mouthed unnecessarily, and Phil nodded.

Across the room Jack tugged on Phil’s sleeve, wanting to show him something, and Phil kneeled down to get to his level, listening very seriously to what Jack had to say. Clint looked away – Phil was so good with Jack. It always made him feel a little inadequate.

“Stop it,” Natasha told him sharply, and Clint shrugged. It wasn’t like he did it on purpose.

Still, he felt better when Jack came bounding back to them.

“Did you like your party?” he asked him later as he carried the exhausted five year old to bed. 

Jack nodded against his shoulder, a familiar and comforting weight in his arms.

“There was a lot of cake,” he said sleepily, and Clint chuckled.

“That there was.”

He tucked him in carefully, lingering by the bed for a moment.

“Did you like Phil’s friend?” he asked, carding fingers through Jack’s hair. He needed a haircut.

“She’s okay,” Jack yawned.

“Good, that’s good,” Clint said absently.

He dropped a quick kiss on Jack’s forehead and tried to ignore the feeling of dread lodged in his chest.

 

Jack started spending time with Phil and Sylvia after that. They went slow – that was, Clint had come to realise, their default setting with everything Jack-related –, allowing everyone involved to get used to it.

Sylvia was a little tentative around Jack, a little unsure, but Clint could hardly blame her. He had been too in the beginning, still was on the – now rare, thankfully – bad days. Only Phil seemed to be a natural at this, which was a good thing, Clint thought. At least one of them knew what they were doing.

It was strange, not having Jack around all the time. In the past months, Clint had spent most of his awake time with him when he wasn’t training or in the field – at which point they usually drafted some poor SHIELD agent into babysitting despite Tony’s insistence that JARVIS was perfectly capable of looking after him. He had gotten used to the near constant activity that came with having a small child, and his floor felt empty and still without him there. Nat did her best, but she wasn’t one for mindless chatter. 

By the end of the summer, Jack was spending two or three nights a week at Phil’s apartment, going back and forth between their places. Clint fretted about that a little, though he knew he shouldn’t. Thousands of children with divorced parents did the same thing and were perfectly fine. 

Jack would be starting kindergarten soon, and Clint worried about that too. Tony had offered to set aside one of the lower floors for a school, and while Clint – and Phil – had been tempted to agree, they both wanted Jack to have as normal a childhood as possible. He wasn’t a target, wasn’t even on anyone’s radar. He could go to school every morning with one of them and everything would be fine.

Really.

September was hectic. The constant back-and-forth combined with the stress of the new school made Jack high-strung and irritable. They hit a couple of setbacks, and on one memorable occasion Jack called Clint _‘Dad’_. It was during a silly argument over what to have for dinner, and Clint’s heart did a little jolt in his chest at the word. He wouldn’t have made a big deal out of it – wouldn’t even have brought attention to it, content to let it repeat on a loop in his head –, except Jack realised what he had said and Clint had to watch his face crumple and his eyes blur and–

Jack ran out of the room and refused to speak to Clint for a week. He spent it with Phil and Sylvia, and Clint missed him for every minute of it.

A few days after he came home, things were almost back to normal when Phil showed up. Clint and Jack were in their living room, Jack playing and Clint doing paperwork, but when Clint waved him in Phil stayed where he was.

“Can I talk to you for a second?” he said.

Clint raised a questioning eyebrow, and Phil inclined his head towards the hallway, where they could talk privately and still keep an eye on Jack.

“We’ll be right back,” Clint told Jack before joining Phil. “What’s up?”

“Sylvia and I were talking the other night –” Phil trailed off, and Clint nodded encouragingly, “– and we thought maybe Jack could come and live with us – permanently.”

For a split second Clint’s brain refused to process what Phil had said – and then the words sank in, and he felt his face go horribly blank. 

“Kids his age need stability,” Phil explained quickly. “Going back and forth between our apartments can’t be good for him, especially with school. And you know he likes Sylvia and she has regular hours, she can look after him when the team is busy if she isn’t in rehearsals.”

Clint nodded mechanically. “When do you want him to move in?”

“You can see him whenever you want, of course,” Phil said a little desperately.

“Yeah, sure, whatever you think is best. I– I got to go,” Clint mumbled, turning on his heel and almost running out of the door.

He walked blindly away from Phil – away from Jack –, not knowing where his feet were taking him until he ended up on Natasha’s floor. It was mostly for show since she spent most of her time in Clint’s spare bedroom – or his bedroom, depending –, and she was away on a solo assignment anyway, but Clint needed to think.

Phil was right. Phil was _always_ right. When Clint doubted his own judgement – which wasn’t often on the job, but common enough with Jack –, he trusted Phil’s because Phil always knew best.

What did Clint know about raising a child anyway? He kept screwing things up. It was no wonder, really: his own childhood had hardly been conventional. It would be better for Jack to have some stability – they wouldn’t want him to become like Clint, after all, who had somehow managed to fall hopelessly in love with his handler without even realising it, and whose most significant relationship was with someone as damaged as himself. At least with Phil, Jack would have a mom and a dad, and would be far less likely to become an orphan again in the near future.

Really, it would be better for everyone. He just needed to pull himself together and accept it.

He stayed in a corner of Natasha’s room for as long as he dared, and then he put his game face on and went back upstairs. They needed to plan when Jack would move out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to thank all of you for being so supportive and enthusiastic about this story. You're awesome!
> 
> Here's the last part, I hope you'll enjoy it :)

What had he done?

Phil had fucked it up. He knew it – had known it ever since that horrible expression had settled on Clint’s face, and Phil had watched him shut down right in front of him. His eyes had been empty and his voice completely flat, and Phil should have stopped talking then – except he had found himself scrambling to explain in an attempt to make Clint _understand_. It hadn’t worked – he had said all the wrong things, and made an already bad situation a hundred times worse –, and now Phil was left wondering how he had lost his cool.

Phil Coulson did not lose his cool. Any SHIELD agent would swear to it – unflappability was his _thing_. But Phil was starting to realise it was far from the case when Jack was concerned. It hardly seemed fair, but there it was.

He really had had Jack’s best interests at heart. Ever since school had started, the boy had been short-tempered and prone to tantrums, and Phil had thought that living in one place until he got used to it would help.

Sylvia had been the one who had brought up the subject, but Phil couldn’t blame this on her. After all, she didn’t have all the data – of course she would find it odd that Jack spent so much time with Clint. To her he was just a friend who had stepped up when Phil had needed him to, and when she had thought Jack’s wellbeing was at stake, she had spoken up. _Phil_ was the one who had made a mess of everything.

His own parents had divorced when he was in secondary school, and he remembered how he had hated being shuffled back and forth between their two places, not having a home in either. But society had been different then, and he and Clint weren’t Phil’s parents. He shouldn’t have assumed their situations were even remotely similar – Jack, for one, would never have to wonder if he was a hardship to either of them –, or that Clint would know where he was coming from.

The thing was, Phil hadn’t expected Clint to just agree. He had thought he would get a chance to explain everything rationally. They would discuss the pros and cons, talk to Jack together, and then come to a decision. Jack was what was important here, and hurting Clint meant hurting Jack. That had never been an option.

Instead, Clint had said yes before Phil could explain he didn’t mean permanent as in forever, acting like he would never see Jack again and was shutting himself off from the pain. Yes, deep down Phil wished he had Jack with him all the time, but that was normal, wasn’t it? Surely Clint felt the same way? It didn’t mean he would actually do something about it – right? 

Phil blamed himself, but he had to admit part of him was angry at Clint too. How could he think Phil would do that to him – to _Jack_? Didn’t the man know him at all? Didn’t he know how much Jack adored him – how Phil and Sylvia never did anything right, not like _Clint_ , when Jack was with them? That right there should have been a clue that having Jack move in full time was not the way to help him deal with the stress of school, but contrary to what Clint liked to think, Phil didn’t have any more clues as to what he was doing than Clint did. He made mistakes all the time, though this one was the biggest by far.

It had seemed like a good idea – _in theory_. It had had all the right arguments. It had just been missing the most important part – Clint –, and Phil should have realised then and there he needed to tell Sylvia the whole truth.

When had he become so short-sighted?

Clint’s reaction… Well, he should have foreseen that too. Clint may be one of the most confident men he knew on the job, but he was inversely so in his personal life. He had been there for Jack when Phil couldn’t, when things had been at their hardest, and Phil knew it had taken a toll on him. It had made him doubt himself – made him think he was not good with Jack because the boy hadn’t gotten better magically overnight. As if Phil would somehow have done a better job – he wouldn’t have.

That was the sort of things that was supposed to come out in therapy, but they had all been so focused on Jack that Clint’s feelings had somehow fallen through the cracks. That was Phil’s fault too.

And he had no idea how to fix it. 

No, that wasn’t true. There was one thing he could do.

Phil broke up with Sylvia the next day. 

It was completely out of the blue, and he hated himself for the incomprehension written all over her face when he told her. She wasn’t the type to make a scene, and so there were no tears and no yelling, although Phil almost wished there had been. Maybe then he wouldn’t feel like such an asshole for hurting everyone he loved. She deserved better, especially after everything he had put her through, but he had made his choice.

He packed his things and moved to his floor in the Tower the same day. Jack was overjoyed, though Sylvia’s absence confused him at first. It didn’t take him long to shake it off – he had liked her, but she had remained an outsider to him, which retrospectively Phil was glad of.

If Phil had thought his move would make everything right again, he was soon proven wrong. Clint had stared at his boxes with a blank face that first day before promptly disappearing somewhere in the Tower – JARVIS wouldn’t say where. Since then he had steadfastly avoided Phil, which was quite a feat considering they both spent all their free time with Jack.

If he had thought it was Clint’s way of making him pay for his thoughtlessness, Phil would have gladly accepted the punishment. But Clint wasn’t a vindictive person, and he usually hid when _he_ felt guilty about something, which told Phil he may have inadvertently made things worse.

Why did things keep getting so out of hand when Clint was concerned?

He was forming a possible plan when Natasha barged into his office. She hadn’t bothered to shower the op off her, smelling like blood and gunpowder, and there was danger in her eyes Phil wasn’t used to see directed at him.

“What did you do?” she hissed at him.

He counted at least three knives on her, and while he was reasonably certain she wouldn’t use them on him, he wasn’t completely sure either. But if there was anyone who could help, it was Natasha, and so he told her everything, not glossing over any detail. 

When he was done, she stared at him for a long time before shaking her head in disgust. Her disappointment was worse than the threat of violence.

“What were you _thinking_? First you threaten to take his kid away from him –”

“That wasn’t–” Phil tried to protest, because that really hadn’t been his intention, but Natasha’s glare shut him up.

“– and then you had to break up with Sylvia and put that on him too?”

“What? No!” It wasn’t like that! It had been _his_ decision, _his_ choice. Clint couldn’t blame himself for that – Phil hadn’t even done it for him. He had done it because he had believed it would better for everyone in the long run.

“That’s what it looks like to Clint. And now he’s got to live with the knowledge that it’s only a matter of time until you meet someone else and the subject comes up again.”

“It won’t,” Phil protested. 

“Can you promise that?” She looked at him shrewdly, and Phil nodded resolutely. 

It would be tricky, of course, because Clint would probably take it just as badly if he thought Phil didn’t date because of him and was unhappy with being single. But Sylvia had been the exception more than she was the rule: Phil rarely had time for relationships anyway. He usually dated when his apartment started getting too lonely, but living in the Tower was proving to be anything but. Couldn’t they just take things one day at a time and see?

“Fix this,” Natasha told him as she left, and Phil knew what he had to do.

 

He found Clint later that night. He was watching Jack sleep with a look on his face that broke Phil’s heart a little, like he expected him to be snatched away any second and had to look his fill before it happened. That was all Phil’s doing.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Do you have a second?”

For a moment he thought Clint would ignore him, but then Clint had always been stupidly brave and he nodded, moving quietly out of Jack’s bedroom.

“What?” he asked, arms crossed defensively against his chest and looking at a point over Phil’s shoulder.

“Talk to me, okay?”

Clint frowned. “And say what?”

“Anything.”

And there it was finally, a brief glimpse of the anger Phil wanted to see. He would take that over the blankness any day.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Clearly, you do,” Phil pointed out. “Look, I know I made a mess of things. I never meant to make it sound like I was going to take Jack away forever, it was just meant to be until he became less stressed about school. And maybe I shouldn’t have brought Sylvia into this in the first place, it made everything even more complicated, but it’s over now and –”

“It’s _over_?” Clint interrupted. “Sylvia wasn’t the problem, Phil. You can’t just keep making that kind of decision as if it’s not going to affect anyone but you. You can’t just do that and move in here and think everything is going to be fine. People have _feelings_ , Phil, what about hers – what about Jack’s, or mine? How about _yours_? How could you put this on me? It’s not fucking fair!”

Clint cut himself off abruptly, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

“You and Sylvia had something good. You were happy. I don’t want to be responsible for that ending – I won’t be,” he said, more calmly. “We can make this work. Jack will be fine, he can keep going back and forth between our places and it’ll be like it was before. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll revisit the other option – on a temporary basis.”

“Can I say something?”

Clint nodded jerkily.

“You’re right. I didn’t handle this very well, and my decisions do affect you and Jack. However –” Phil threw Clint a look, daring him to contradict him. “My relationship with Sylvia was about me and her, not you. Ending it was _my_ choice, and it had nothing to do with you. I’m not going to end up resenting you – or Jack – for it.” Clint looked away at that, and Phil knew he had gotten at least one thing right.

“And for the record, it goes both ways. You don’t want me to be unhappy? Well, I don’t want _you_ to be miserable either – and don’t say you weren’t.”

“Still, you didn’t have to break up with her,” Clint said, finally looking at him, and Phil exhaled softly.

“I know. But I did. Please give me the courtesy of knowing my own mind.”

Because Clint _was_ right. They could have made it work. But Phil had chosen not to, and that was a decision only he or Sylvia could have made. As much as he loved her – and he did –, ultimately he knew it wasn’t enough. His job had always been in the way and that had never been fair to her, but she had known, and she had taken him back anyway. It had worked for a while, but now Jack came before her too, and possibly Clint as well, and Phil knew he had been selfish long enough. She deserved better, they all did. 

So yes, it would hurt for a while, but not nearly as long – or as much – as it should have. 

That really said it all.

“Okay,” Clint said, rubbing the back of his neck tiredly.

“Okay?”

“Yeah.” He nodded as if to reinforce the word, and tension leeched out of Phil slowly.

“I think we should start seeing Dr Finchmore again – it’d be good for Jack, with everything that’s happened.”

Clint gave him a look that said he knew he was being played, but Phil wasn’t above playing the Jack card if it got them all the help they needed. 

“Fine,” Clint sighed. “Make the appointment. You know my schedule anyway.”

“Great.” And then, more hesitantly: “See you tomorrow?”

“Come over for breakfast – if you want?” Clint offered.

“Thanks,” Phil said, “I will.”

They would work things out. 

\---

They were fine – eventually.

It took a while for Clint to relax, not to feel guilty every time Phil looked a little lonely – to ignore the spike of worry every time he went to the Lincoln Center to listen to the Philharmonic.

Dr Finchmore helped – all three of them. Natasha, as always, was his greatest strength, and she didn’t hesitate to kick his ass when he started overthinking things – he was pretty sure she was still kicking Phil’s too. Clint had caught him wincing more than once after a session at the gym with her.

They got into a routine. Clint didn’t want to admit it, but it _was_ easier with Phil just a floor away. He would come up when it was time for Jack to wake up, and one of them would help him get ready while the other made breakfast. Then they would walk Jack to school – usually together, unless one of their schedules got in the way. After dropping him off, they went their separate ways, attending to their respective duties until it was time to pick Jack up, and the rest of the day was spent with him unless the job intervened. 

After they put Jack to bed, they often found themselves spending their evenings together, catching up on paperwork in companiable silence, watching TV or just talking. More often than not, Natasha would join them, and sometimes the rest of the team did as well. It was all strangely domestic.

It was home.

There were missions, some harder than others, some with the Avengers and some without. Injuries were frequent, some minor and some less so. The first time Clint got severely injured was three months after Phil had moved in. He was in a coma for two days, and while it was nothing that hadn’t happened before, it somehow felt different. At least he woke up in time for Christmas, and swore to himself he would be more careful in the future – he didn’t want to see that look on Jack’s face again, or the exhaustion on Phil’s.

Christmas was as extravagant as Clint had imagined it would be with Tony Stark at the helm. He was still recovering, and Jack was a little clingy – not that Clint minded in the slightest – but he enjoyed it all the same. Jack was spoiled rotten, and Pepper made a few pointed comments that made Tony go a little white around the eyes, much to everyone’s amusement.

New Year’s Eve was a similarly grand event. Jack was sent to bed early, leaving the grown-ups to party. He grumbled about it unhappily, and JARVIS caught him trying to sneak back in thirty minutes after Clint had put him to bed. Phil shot Clint a look that said he blamed his half of Jack’s genetic make-up for it, and went to intercept him – it was his turn. Clint smiled.

“Having fun?” Nat said, sidling up next to him, and he nodded. He had never been one for parties, but he was. “Good. Dance with me.”

Dancing with Natasha was easy and comfortable. They had certainly done it enough times to make a production out of it, ignoring the catcalls that followed them. As the music got quieter so did they, simply enjoying each other’s company and the closeness the dance afforded them. 

Phil was back, watching them with a fond smile, and Clint navigated them towards him through the crowd as something more upbeat started again.

“Your turn,” he told him, and let go of Nat’s hand so she could drag Phil to the dance floor before he could even form a protest.

“Looking good, Phil!” Tony called out, laughing when Phil flipped him off.

Phil was a terrible dancer, which Clint belatedly remembered from the one time he and Nat had had to dance together while undercover. At the time Clint had thought it had been part of his character, but clearly it was all Phil. 

He should have expected Nat to bring Phil back to him after their dance, but he still found himself blinking at Phil’s extended hand.

“Fair’s fair,” Nat said with a grin that was a little too knowing for Clint’s peace of mind, and he rolled his eyes at her before letting Phil take him back to the dance floor.

Luckily for him – and his feet – the music had slowed down again, and even Phil was capable of swaying in place. Dancing with him was as unusual as dancing with Nat had been familiar, but it was just as comfortable, and Clint found himself smiling again. Or maybe he had never stopped.

“Everything okay with Jack?” he asked as they moved slowly to the music.

“Yes. I think he was determined to stay up and try again, but he fell asleep while I was reading his bedtime story.”

“Thwarted again,” Clint joked. “Did you ever try to sneak into your parents’ parties when you were his age?”

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Phil said with his best poker face, and Clint laughed out loud.

“I knew it. Did you imagine you were Captain America slipping behind enemy lines?” he teased, and Phil retaliated by trying to spin him around, almost sending him crashing into the man in question. Phil ended up apologising profusely to Steve, and Natasha rescued Clint from further persecutions by demanding another dance, which he accepted gladly.

At midnight, she kissed him soundly on the mouth like she always did – her way of celebrating the fact they had both made it alive through one more year. Then she proceeded to do the same thing to Phil, who looked more than a little gobsmacked. She must have finally forgiven him.

In that moment, Clint realised he was happy.

It was a good feeling.

 

Less than a month later, on January 26th, was the anniversary of the day Jack and Phil’s double had come through the portal. It sometimes felt like Jack had been in their lives for a lot longer than a year, and they hadn’t planned to do anything special for it – which was just as well, since they ended up being busy and missing the date by a few days.

February 7th marked the one year anniversary of Jack’s father’s death, and they made sure they remembered that date. The other Phil had been cremated and there was no grave to visit, so instead they talked to Jack about his parents. They didn’t know when Clint’s double had died, but it seemed right to remember them together – they probably would have wanted it that way.

It was hard on all of them, and over the next few weeks Jack looked like something was bothering him. He finally broke down one evening when Clint was tucking him in.

“Can I call you dad?” he said, so quietly that Clint almost didn’t catch the words. 

For a few heartbeats Clint couldn’t say anything at all, throat clogged up with emotion. 

“Of course you can,” he finally managed.

“Do you think they would mind?” Jack asked, lower lip wobbling, and Clint gathered him into his arms.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he whispered. “They would just want you to be happy.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.” 

Clint swallowed back tears and held Jack close, whispering nonsense into his hair as he cried. Movement nearby made Clint look up – Phil was standing in the doorway with a worried frown on his face, and Clint shook his head slightly to indicate they were fine. Those were good tears, cleansing and relieved rather than upset and unhappy.

“What about Phil? Do you think he would mind?” Jack asked, voice still thick with tears

“I think… I think that would make him very happy,” Clint said, sounding as wrecked as he imagined he looked. Phil was definitely alarmed now, and Clint tried to smile reassuringly at him – failed miserably. “Why don’t you ask him?”

Jack turned his head, blinking at finding Phil so close. He suddenly seemed tongue-tied, and Clint appreciated the fact that Phil didn’t rush him, despite the numerous catastrophe scenarios that were undoubtedly running through his head.

“Can I call you dad?” Jack finally asked shyly, and Clint watched as Phil’s thought process came to a shrieking halt.

“Yes, of course,” Phil answered automatically, though Clint could tell he hadn’t really processed the words. He was still way too calm.

“Good,” Jack said sleepily, making Clint laugh softly. 

He finished going through their bedtime ritual, lingering more than usual, and Jack fell asleep in record time. Phil had disappeared by the time Clint finally dragged himself away, and he found him pacing in the living room.

“What are we _doing_?” Phil asked.

“Now you panic,” Clint said wryly, which seemed to bring Phil up short.

“You’re not?”

“Nope.” He really wasn’t. In fact he had never felt so great in his entire life.

“Why not? This is huge!”

“No, what’s huge is what we’ve been doing for the past year,” Clint felt the need to point out. “This doesn’t change anything.”

Phil took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “It doesn’t?” he asked.

“Not for me anyway.” Clint shrugged. “Do you feel differently about Jack now than you did an hour ago?”

“No, of course not,” Phil said with a frown, though a goofy smile was starting to peek through.

“See? It’s just a name.” 

It really wasn’t. 

Phil was right, it _was_ huge and precious and scary. They could suddenly hurt Jack so much more than they could have before. Because he had claimed them as his fathers and that made him their son – betraying the trust he had placed in them by doing so was not an option. 

But Clint didn’t think telling Phil all that would help. 

“What’s up?” Natasha said, flopping on the couch.

“Phil is freaking out because Jack asked if he could call us dad,” Clint told her, ignoring the mock glare Phil directed at him. What? It was the truth.

“I was wondering when he would ask,” Nat said with a smile.

Clint raised an eyebrow at her. “You knew?”

She gave him a look. _Of course._

“A heads up would have been nice,” Phil said, sitting down heavily. He was starting to look better. “Sorry,” he told Clint, who shrugged. 

“You were due a freak out.”

“You were,” Natasha concurred. “You’ve been dealing with all this way too calmly.”

“I’m not sure I agree with you on that,” Phil said with a crooked smile.

“Well congrats, Dads,” she said, and Clint wrinkled his nose at her.

“You’re not allowed to call us that. It sounds weird.”

“Besides, just wait,” Phil added with a drawl that told Clint he was up to no good, “Soon he’ll want to call you mom.”

The look on Natasha’s face was positively horrified, and Clint burst into laughter, Phil joining him. Natasha cursed at them in Russian, but she was smiling.

 

Clint was happy – so happy he sometimes wondered how it could last, and yet it did. He still worried occasionally about Phil falling in love with someone new, the anxiety mixing up with his own jealousy. But as months went by and Clint grew more secure in his role as a father, he eventually realised that whatever may happen with Phil, he would always have Jack. Phil wouldn’t try to take him away, and even if he did, Clint wouldn’t stand for it. 

Still, Phil showed no interest in dating, and Clint was relieved.

From time to time, he would wonder what it would be like if they were _more_ , but he didn’t tell Phil how he felt. He had too much to lose now.

It was a nice dream though.

\---

On a sunny Saturday afternoon in April, Phil and Clint took Jack to the park. There was nothing special about that day, nothing different or out of the ordinary. Certainly nothing heralding the fact that Phil’s world was about to be turned upside down.

They were sitting on a bench, discussing Jack’s upcoming sixth birthday party while keeping an eye on him. It was getting late, and most of the other families had gone home already, but Jack was doing something that required all his attention, and they had agreed to give him a few more minutes.

“Dad, I need you!” Jack called out imperiously. 

Phil and Clint shared a look.

“Please,” Phil called back mildly.

“ _Please_ , Dad, come here,” Jack amended, and Clint snorted, standing up.

“You’re not helping,” Phil muttered, though his smile ruined the sternness of his tone.

It had been confusing at first to figure out which one of them Jack was addressing when he said “Dad”. They still got it wrong sometimes, but Jack would just give them a _look_ and sigh: “Not you.”

They got it right this time though, and Clint made his way to Jack to see why his presence was required. He sat down cross-legged next to him to examine something Jack shoved in his face excitedly, and Phil watched them with a lingering smile.

Clint always looked softer around Jack, the sharpness that usually defined him blunter, a little fuzzy around the edges. Not for the first time, the sight of the two of them together made warmth bloom in Phil’s chest, and he rubbed the scar there absent-mindedly.

It didn’t take him long to realise someone else was watching. A middle-aged woman a couple of benches over was looking at Clint and Jack. A quick assessment told Phil she was no threat, and when she noticed him watching, she turned her stare on him, and he smiled at her politely.

The stare turned into a glare, taking Phil aback, even as she got up and left in a huff. Phil frowned slightly, wondering what that had been all about. It took him a while to realise she had thought he and Clint were a couple – and disapproved. He rolled his eyes. It was hardly the first time someone thought they were together – in fact it was the prevailing assumption at Jack’s school and among his friends’ parents. Neither Phil nor Clint had ever bothered to correct them. It was just easier that way.

His eyes found Clint again, who was nodding solemnly at whatever Jack was telling him. Realising Phil was watching, he looked up questioningly, but Phil shook his head slightly – nothing to worry about. And Clint smiled, a happy uncomplicated smile that made Phil’s breath catch in his throat.

_‘I love that man,’_ he thought, and then:

_‘I_ want _that man.’_

Phil blinked.

While the first thought wasn’t exactly new, the second was, and Phil could feel things slotting into place in his mind. 

Oh.

He stood, walking up to Clint on autopilot.

“What’s up?” Clint asked, looking up at him, and Phil bent down to grasp his elbow, pulling him to his feet. As Clint read whatever emotions were written on his face, Phil watched his expression change from confusion to something that looked a lot like hope – and so very fragile.

Phil kissed him. He had to. 

He hadn’t expected Clint to come alive against him, his hands grasping Phil’s jacket to pull him closer. Hadn’t expected Clint to kiss him back with so much hunger and desperation, making Phil wish he had thought this through and waited ‘til they weren’t in a public place to do this. 

Phil lost himself in the kiss, the sound of Jack’s babbling about… rocks? becoming almost distant. Only then did he manage to reassert some control over himself, breaking the kiss and forcing himself to take a step back. He had to put some distance between them – it was either that or push Clint back against the monkey bars and do something indecent to the man.

Clint though… Clint looked completely _wrecked_ , and it took every ounce of willpower Phil had not to reach out and put his hands on him again. 

Clint cleared his throat, forcing Phil to look away from his too red lips to meet his eyes. The heat he saw in them did nothing to help with his self-control, and it was a relief to know Clint wasn’t faring much better if the way he shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans to stop himself from grabbing Phil was any indication.

Phil could sympathise with the feeling.

“We’ll talk tonight,” he said hoarsely.

Clint nodded sharply and resolutely folded himself back on the ground to continue to listen to Jack’s one-sided conversation. Jack didn’t seem to have noticed anything out of the ordinary, but then again _this_ had been the ordinary for him.

Phil went back to his bench. And watched.

The rest of the evening went by excruciatingly slowly, and by the time Phil finished reading Jack his bedtime story he had trouble focusing on anything other than _Clint_.

He found him in the kitchen, still straightening things out – stalling, Phil thought, or keeping himself busy so he wouldn’t go insane.

Phil took one step towards him, and all thoughts of talking fled from his mind. 

They ended up in bed in record times, Phil cradled between Clint’s thighs, pulling at clothes to get at skin and touching every part of him he could reach. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt this frantic, this _greedy_. He couldn’t get enough of Clint’s reactions, of the needy sounds spilling from his lips he kept trying to stifle. Clint was so very responsive, so starved for it, arching into him like it was everything he had ever wanted. Maybe it was – and they would definitely have to talk about it, but it would have to be later because Phil wasn’t stopping, not unless Clint asked him to slow down. He was so fucking gorgeous like this, and Phil couldn’t believe it had taken him this long to figure it out. 

He really was an idiot.

“God, I love you,” he blurted out, and Clint made a helpless noise before pulling Phil down for another kiss, blindly seeking his mouth even as Phil ground down against him, making them groan into each other’s mouth.

Needless to say they didn’t get a lot of sleep that night.

Phil couldn’t keep his hands off Clint the next morning, almost making him burn breakfast as he draped himself over Clint’s back while Jack alternatingly giggled and made faces at them.

When Natasha showed up for her pancakes, she took one look at them and said knowingly, “I’ll look after Jack today.”

Then she smiled, soft and happy, and added: “Took you long enough.”

Phil privately agreed, and dragged a laughing Clint back to the bedroom as soon as they were alone again. They were making up for lost time. 

They scrambled into clothes two hours later, cursing, when the call to assemble came, and parted ways with a kiss. They met up again hours later, collapsing into bed in an exhausted pile. Jack wormed his way between them – he liked to sleep with one of them after a mission –, and Phil met Clint’s eyes over his head. Clint was smiling, sleepy and warm and happy, and Phil brushed a kiss against his lips, feeling so much love he thought his heart might burst.

“Sleep,” Clint mouthed at him, and so Phil closed his eyes and did.

The alarm woke them up the next day, and they had to hurry to get Jack ready for school on time.

Then they were swallowed by the whirl of post-action reports and debriefing that came after an op, and it was business as usual – almost. Somehow neither of them could stop smiling.

(They did manage to have that talk. Eventually.)


End file.
